


a naked singularity

by fiddleogold_againstyoursoul



Series: the line between hate / love is drawn by our fingertips [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: A Naked Singularity, Anxiety Attacks, Demotivation, Depression, Divorced Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Minor Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette/George Washington, Past Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens, Thomas disassociates, they get drunk a lot, they talk about death and insignificance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-15 06:29:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9223178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiddleogold_againstyoursoul/pseuds/fiddleogold_againstyoursoul
Summary: After Laurens' death, Hamilton comes to be, in a strange turn of events, living with Thomas Jefferson.ORThe modern lawyer AU nobody asked for. Based loosely off  of one of the best American novels I've ever read, A Naked Singularity by Sergio de la Pava.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic deals with some heavy stuff, so mind the tags.  
> \- I have never been clinically diagnosed with depression and or anxiety, but I do have many of the symptoms and am holding out on seeing a professional for now, for various personal reasons. That being said, I have watched and attended several mental health panels, spoken with some friends in the field and such. I hope my characterisation isn't too off.
> 
> \- My knowledge of how the court works is limited to several books and a study of only a few months, and anyone in law, please forgive me. 
> 
> \- In essentiality Jamilton, at least the way I write it, is still a relationship founded on hate and mistrust. It's not going to snap change one day because Thomas was less of an asshole and Alexander less prickly.
> 
> \- Alexander is going through some shit and Thomas has never had to deal with things like that, so he's a little standoffish and stiff about it. Some of the things he says are really shitty. Just know that this is only to tailor to the fic itself. 
> 
> \- Thomas Jefferson is a fucked up person. A hypocrite. You only have to pick up a history book to know that. Because of that, his character portrayal here is also flawed. Please bear with me.
> 
> \- The opinions in the fic on the politics I raise to your attention are not necessarily mine. Please do not attempt to refute arguments I did not make.
> 
> \- Certain dynamics taken from the novel of the same name by Sergio de la Pava. A brilliant, witty and amazing read. Packs a punch. If you're into a unique voice and a killer sort of story with its own quirky sort of humour, go ahead and pick it up.
> 
> \- I listened to Sail by AWOLNATION and Crossfire by Stephen, writing this. 
> 
> LONG ASS NOTES OVER. ENJOY, MY CINNAMMONROLLS.

 

 

* * *

 

Thomas doesn't remember when he first started disassociating.

He just did.

(Start, he means. Though what is a start if there is no real sort of journey, only circles and circles around a certain point in space where gravity holds him firm to earth and rock?)

Looking at the walls of the train in the subway, watching them swim and swirl. And then, as if gravity was failing him, the sensation of being lifted. Of suspension, hovering midair and observing instead of seeing, moving his lips but not really speaking. 

It was certain lapses. Spells. 

(He's twirling in open space. Grasping for memories that slip by open fingers as easily as bottle necks, sloshing alcohol cheap and otherwise over his expensive suits and bubble baths.)

He never does it in the courtroom. Would never forgive himself had he. At least, not till after. 

After the case. After the client has thanked - or cursed at, being a lawyer is quite a gamble indeed - him and gone home. After he is standing, as if naked, in the middle of an empty hallway, holding buzzing arms out with eyes closed.

(Thomas likes to think it's like dancing. Almost romantic. A swaying waltz, lifting off the tips of his toes and feeling only a growing numbness as his vision started to blur and blend and fizzle and pop behind his eyes.)

(Thomas likes to think.)

 

* * *

 

Alexander Hamilton likes to talk.

(He talks like he knows shit. He talks like he owns shit. Like he's in control of those thoughts, the words he tosses out as carelessly as darts by an expert marksman, somehow always drawing blood. Finding their mark. Every case might as well be a bullseye. A flare in the dark.)

'Your Honour, the case the defendant brings out is shaky. It's clear that there is a lack of credible evidence, and planning for each statement. I have a very specific set of reasons as to why we should and will win this case. Allow me to lay them out for you here, for the benefit of the opposing attorney -' Thomas shifts in his seat as Hamilton raises his eyebrows in his direction. Good God, this man. '- and your ears both. Your Honour?'

He's a very unorthodox attorney. Thomas can't begrudge him that, not when he's one himself. His clients get acquitted.

Every case with Hamilton feels like dancing on the edge of a blade. Not because it's dangerous, no: Thomas knows all about danger, revels in the taste of it - married women and men's skin pressed against his on a damp night, risque phone calls and questions on the first date - but because of the thrill. Hamilton talks like he's fighting. He jabs his fingers in the air, even now, like he wishes he were jabbing them into Thomas's eyes. Even the stance he takes is defensive: it's so easy to rile him up, knock him down, and yet he won't stay down. He's funny, that way. Thomas wonders if Alexander Hamilton has ever found himself in a situation where his clever, clever fucking mouth proved to be not enough. He doubts it, and he doubts that he ever will.

It's not like he deliberately loses, sometimes. (Though he does.) It's just so fun to see Hamilton smile and hum through the praise of the poor sod he's defending at the time, only to come up absolutely frothing at the mouth afterwards and say, in that tight voice he reserves specially for Thomas:

'I don't need your pity.'

Because Thomas knows how Hamilton works: every careless flick of his wrist is a sign of aggression. Every word is something explicitly crafted, pored over day and night in office and over coffee with whoever's ear he'll bend next, holding every fucking time a meaning deeper than the original. Hamilton is clever. He is too fucking clever. He is also angry, always angry, and that combination makes him a whirlwind of destruction, snatching court cases from lawyers who thought themselves the better and came out mouths wide open and steamrolled to the floor. They underestimate Hamilton. Thomas does not. He will not ever make that mistake.

It is why he is not surprised when Hamilton wins the case, and many others like it. Oh, they are dancing on the edge of a blade, but Thomas can forget that some knives are double-edged. 

 

* * *

 

She looks up from between Thomas's legs, mouth glistening in a way so delectable he has to bend down and kiss it. Her name is a fuzzy memory behind memories, an escape from a world far too busy for him to entertain any real company. Skin remembers skin. He arches back as she swallows him down, again, throat bobbing around Thomas like a buoy lost at sea: he feels blissed out, too faraway to really mind anything. He runs his fingers through her hair and she shivers.

Even though it's one of the worst things to do in a situation like this, Thomas's mind drifts.

_Why we should win this case._

He always wraps up with that line, does Hamilton. Always cocky, self-assured, that kind of fierce arrogance that makes Thomas want to knock him down a peg or two. His blog is full of pompousness: outright slander of politicians and legislation that makes Thomas wonder why people think of _him_ as the elitist. And my God, does Hamilton love to talk, and write. Thomas feels, sometimes, that if Hamilton had lived in Shakespeare's era, he would have the poor old bastard wrung out to dry on a washing line as he stormed through the theatre in a mad blur of writing. 

A shift in tempo, and Thomas realises the girl is straddling him, eyes glittering with something akin to warmth. He reaches out and pulls her closer, and for a moment he can breathe in the cloying scent of her perfume, something cheap and dollar-store. 

_Hamilton and his stupid fucking mouth and his stupid fucking words, and_

she gasps. she clings to him, sweat and skin and bone, and rocks. 

He steals away at dawn. He does not leave a phone number, an article of clothing: he flings the condom into the bin on his own and shrugs on his coat. He doesn't even look at the girl before he leaves. Thomas Jefferson is not one for monogamy, nor for unnecessary sentiment.

That is why he is surprised by the warmth stealing into his chest at the thought of kissing Alexander Hamilton.

* * *

 

'Ah, Tom,' Jimmy says, crossing his legs as Thomas sinks into the chair opposite. 'I s'ppose the polite way to greet a friend would be "How do you do?" but you know what I'm really itching to hear about.'

'If you mean the case with Hamilton, I'm not gonn' say a word.'

He reflects, absently, as he crooks his finger and the waiter comes scurrying, how he's always called it the case  _with_ Hamilton, as opposed to against him. 

(But there are some forces you can't reckon with. Some forces that are just there. There. Like that means anything. Like that should.)

'C'mon. They say he dragged your ass to China.'

'Which is, incidentally, where he got his new suit.' Probably. Thomas places his order with a wink, and the waiter stumbles away, his cheeks flushed. 'Did you catch wind of that, too? It's the ugliest thing I ever saw, Lord help us all.'

James chokes on his drink, and breaks into a coughing fit as he leans away, thumping his own chest. 'Thomas - you really have to stop winding - him up.' Thomas spreads his hands, wondering if he would get away with twirling in the middle of the restaurant. 'You know, Hamilton would be a useful addition to any case we're working on. You could...attempt to recruit him.'

'He's Washington's dog, Jimmy. Up there with that no-good Laurens - didja hear he punched our Lee in the face the other day, right in the courtroom? Something about insulting Washington's integrity.'

'I don't know, Charles has always been a young upstart.' James's right eyebrow soars. 'And the only news I've heard of Laurens is that someone caught him and Hamilton playing kiss chicken in their office, or something. Who would've known?'

Something seizes Thomas by the throat. 

'They're sleeping together? I thought Hamilton was married.'

He is. A pretty investment banker named Eliza. Thomas wouldn't have thought Hamilton the type to entertain men, too. James spreads his hands in a  _ay, what the hell_ way. Thomas senses he's not really invested in the subject matter.

_And why should he be?_

_(why should i)_

'They say Laurens always looks lovesick around the guy. Who can tell?'

And all of a sudden, he's ready to stop talking about Hamilton. The rest of their lunch passes in companionable banter: yes, Jimmy, I did get a haircut, no, what's the new gossip? - no, I do not have a new beau, drop the subject. James laughs and waves his hands about, but Thomas knows he, too, is having some trouble keeping any dame happy.

He leans backwards in his chair and polishes off the rest of his filet mignon.

James calls for the check, blatantly refuses any of Thomas's attempts to filch it from his fingers, and stands to go.

'Well, I'll be off. Drinks Saturday?'

'Wouldn't miss it.' Thomas rises, too, and puts on his coat. James leaves. He's left standing, alone, in the middle of the restaurant, but no one pays him any heed. The waiter comes over, but only to take the money - cash, Jimmy does like to make an impression. He catches Thomas's eye, and promptly goes beet red.

'Now, darling, what time does your shift end?'

Thomas slides in closer, and the man's Adam's Apple bobs in a way that is very attractive. He's a skinny thing, smaller than Thomas, and with a pang of annoyance Thomas realises that he reminds him, rather, of Alexander Hamilton. That's until the man opens his mouth, and the illusion dissipates.

'Not t-till late, sir.'

Alexander Hamilton would not talk in a way that makes his words shake. That makes him seem smaller. He does not stutter. He would never stutter. And the sky would fucking fall in on the earth when the little prick ever deigned to address anyone properly. Thomas recovers, fluttering his eyelashes and reaches out under the pretense of swiping a speck of something from the man's chin.

'Pity. Another time, then.'

He's turning to go, when a call from the next table warrants his attention.

'Well, if it isn't Thomas Jefferson.'

Dark eyes. Loose, messy hair dragged into a ratty ponytail and stubble like he hasn't shaved for days.

(Intelligent eyes. A tilt to his head, dangerous, questioning, impudent. Fingers steepled and lips curved only so slightly upwards.)

'Look who the cat dragged in,' He says, before he can help it. Hamilton leans back into his seat as if the words amuse him. Across him is none other than Aaron Burr, a shady sort of man whom Thomas hears is trying to get into their law firm. Burr's eyes dart from him to Hamilton, then come to a rest on his own plate. Smart man. 'What a nice coincidence, Hamilton. Congratulations on the recent case.'

'My client would like to thank you.'

'For being so incompetent I would lose it to someone like you?'

Hamilton's eyes glitter. It makes Thomas's blood curdle.

(It sets his insides on fire. Leaping up with flame, red hot and flickering.)

'You said it, not me.'

Burr's mouth drops open, and he reaches over the table as if to bodily disable Hamilton. Which Thomas would pay good money to see.

'Now, Hamilton -'

'Burr, drop the niceties, we both know I'm not one to sugarcoat things.' Hamilton spreads his hands. 'I hope you had a good lunch, Thomas.' He always addresses Thomas by his first name. It irks him a great deal.

(He can't ever put his finger on as to why.)

'Good day, Hamilton. Mr Burr.'

He sees Burr blink, startled, as if he hadn't expected Thomas would remember him. Even though rumour has it that Thomas doesn't forget anything. That Thomas remembers every little detail about every little person and thing he sees, if only to file away forever, to fall into disrepair.

Rumours only grow.

(Rumours, more often than not, as with all good lies, are entrenched in truth.)

 

* * *

 

The same night, Thomas waits outside the restaurant for the waiter to come out, having changed out of his work uniform, and proceeds to jostle him to the wall. The man's eyes widens. Then he kisses Thomas breathless.

Thomas lets Sal take him home and fucks him silly.

'Good God,' The man - Sal - groans after the third(?) round, sweat dripping from an already shiny brow. Thomas kisses him - 

_rough, fast, hard_

\- and turns over, breathing in his peppery scent. He's a good fuck, is Sal. Could barely make it to the bedroom between heavy kisses, laden with layer after layer of longing. Thomas smiles at the thought and casually runs a finger down the inside of Sal's thigh, just to see him shudder. He knows he can't muster up the energy for another go, but God, does he look wrecked like this.

Sex to him is like dancing. He rocks into the rhythm, catches it between his teeth and holds it fast. 

_Don't lose the rhythm. No matter what you do. Don't lose it._

(Lose it and you're floating, again. Dancing. Numb.)

He buries his nose in Sal's neck, and the latter moans. He's kissing and sucking, marks that will linger long after he's stolen away, but he can't bring himself to care. Poor Sal. Poor girl from the other night. Poor everyone he tried to date and immediately dumped.

Thomas Jefferson is not one for unnecessary sentiment.

And sure enough, he's gone as soon as he wakes up. Just for Sal's sake, though, and the fact that he waits a really nice restaurant, there's a hasty phone number scrawled on the inside of a napkin. Thomas likes to think he has a superior sense of humour.

Sal doesn't call. Thomas stops waiting.

 

* * *

 

Hamilton doesn't show for the next case Thomas takes, which is funny, as it has him written all over it. Rich bastard who swindles his consumers into hasty, stupid decisions and hires Thomas to get him out of it. Hamilton would have a field day with this one.

Instead, they spend hours waiting outside for him to arrive. Thomas's defendant looks positively furious - and possibly a little relieved, too. Good thing as it is, Thomas doubts it will last for very long. Old fart. He stands to go when the judge does, and no one attempts to stop him, immediately firing off a series of small text messages - punctuated heavily by capitals and exclamation marks - to James Madison. The response is somewhat akin to this:

_Alexander Hamilton backs out of a case? No way, Jose._

(Yeah, and maybe pigs fly.)

He goes to the bar on his own that night. Orders a tiny, fruity cocktail with one of those little umbrellas in them, and winks at the bartender when she comes sauntering over, all cute in a miniskirt and killer eyeliner. 

'Not tonight, sweetie, sorry.'

She puts his drink down rather vehemently and he jumps. Who got her panties into a wad?

'Got a temper on them, these days,' He says to his cocktail. It doesn't make for a very good conversationalist, but soon he's slurring words into it anyway. He even begins building a small structure out of them tiny umbrellas. 

Someone stumbles into the bar. They sink down into the seat next to Thomas, but he doesn't turn. He'll know soon enough if they're worth his time. He always does.

'A double vodka on the rocks, please,' A tired voice warbles, and Thomas stiffens.

Number one: that's a really strong fucking drink, and maybe Thomas would know best, seeing as how well he holds his alcohol (as opposed to James, who ends up spilling wine at every celebratory party. He usually has to drag his drunk ass home.)

Number two: he'd recognise that voice anywhere. Dripping - at least usually - with a certain arrogance that makes Thomas want to slug him over the face, a little dreamy and a little hopeful and always, always aggressive, like he's never met someone he didn't want to fight.

(And maybe he hasn't. Maybe this whole world is like a playing field to Hamilton. Angry. Aggressive. Tired, so tired of always finding a threat in everyone he looks at.)

Number three: Hamilton is looking straight at him.

Thomas is dumbstruck for a whole minute, which is a great feat in itself. Then he slams the newest tiny umbrella onto the table - it shakes and the toothpick snaps - and yet Hamilton barely notices. 

_'Hamilton.'_

'Thomas.'

The bartender comes over, narrowing her eyes at them. Well, shit.

'Is there a problem, sir?' Her tone is laced with venom. He shakes his head, but he's not looking at her: his eyes trace the haggard outlines of Hamilton's face. He looks like shit. There are deep eye bags under bloodshot dark eyes, and he looks like he's been crying for weeks straight. Something hurts behind Thomas's ribcage.

(He doesn't think he's felt like this for a while. Something sharp, something shooting. Pricks of pain. His fingers curl, and uncurl.)

'Why the fuck didn't you show up for the case today?'

Hamilton doesn't seem to hear him. He throws the shot back and closes his eyes. It goes down like water.

(Water. Thomas thinks he's drowning.)

'Hamilton -'

'Look,' The man says, turning to snap at him, 'J-Just fucking  _lay off my case,_ okay?'

It's the fourth time today Thomas is at a loss for words. Only Alexander fucking Hamilton could even hope to render him speechless. He searches the deep recesses of his mind for something to say, a witty retort, something snappy that will drive Hamilton mad, but he can't set his heart to it. Hell, the man looks like he's been through hell. And did he fucking stutter? It's so anticlimactic a situation that Thomas promptly decides to relapse back into silence.

(The silence is damning. His thoughts fall back amongst each other, clash and chime in a cacophony of disarray. Thomas can't see. Thomas reaches)

'...sorry.' 

Thomas blinks. He wonders if he's dreaming. 

'I beg your pardon?'

'I'm sorry. For snapping.' Thomas isn't sure whether to hit the man or give him a hug. 'And bailing on the case.'

'I'm sorry, is something wrong?'

(Blearily. Dreamily. Not like he means it. He never means it. Never means anything.)

Hamilton fucking snaps. He throws another shot back, and to Thomas's great horror - and intrigue - tears start rolling down his face and onto the same suit that he previously said was from China. Probably. 

 

* * *

 

'My God, don't - sweet Jesus. Don't cry. People are gonn' think I hit you.'

Hamilton doesn't even seem to hear him. He's got his head buried in his hands, and something goddamned fucking  _lifts_ inside Thomas's ribcage. He reaches out instinctively. His fingers thread through Hamilton's hair. It's soft, and he jerks away almost as soon as his skin makes contact. Skin will remember skin. 

(skin always remembers)

'Hamilton -'

'John's fucking dead,' Hamilton says, in between great heaving gasps. Shock courses through Thomas. 'I can't - I can't fuckin' believe - he died, Thomas, he -' And it fades into incorrigible as he buries his head in his hands again. His entire body is shaking. The rest of the occupants of the bar are looking over, and the bartender is staring at Thomas like it's his fault there's a man having a breakdown here. He - wondering at himself for the lapse in normally amazing judgement - wraps an arm around Hamilton, and the man shudders. Good God. 

(This is real. This feels real.)

'C'mon. Come on, Hamilton.'

Hamilton doesn't protest, which surprises Thomas. He lets him yank his sobbing ass out of the bar and sit him down on a bench: Hamilton fairly flops over, like he's gone spineless. Thomas grimaces, thinking of how crinkled his - however cheap - suit will be.

(This must be real. It couldn't)

'Are you gonna calm down?'

Hamilton blurs in his vision. He rubs at his eyes, pinches himself. It doesn't hurt. It never worked, the pinching. Thomas waits, and then repeats his question. He's not sure why he's asking, but hey, he's not gonna be responsible for not seeing a sobbing drunk man home. That kind of shit has repercussions, however much Thomas scoffs at even the idea of karma.

'John,' is Hamilton's only offered response. 'H-He was driving. Fuck, I called him before - he was driving in the snow, and he swore he wasn't speeding or drunk or whatever. And fuck, this other driver was speeding -'

'John Laurens, John?' 

Hamilton only covers his eyes.

'Jesus.' Thomas thinks back to what James said. He reaches out, taking Hamilton's hand. It's warm, with a steady pulse thrumming through it. He pushes back the torrent of emotions that come with this action, and squeeze the trembling fingers. 'Hey. Hey, it's...it's okay. Probably.'

(People die. People slip away.)

'He was the closest friend I had,' Hamilton whispers.

Thomas doesn't know what he's doing. He pulls Hamilton closer, and someone on the street whoops as he walks by. Fucker. Hamilton doesn't protest. He curls up against Thomas: another wave of whatever the fuck this is hits him, hard. He swallows and breathes in the scent of Hamilton's shampoo. Mint. 'Does your wife know you're out here?' He asks, feeling numb. 'You're pretty goddamned drunk. We can't have you driving home. Who the fuck told you it was a good idea to get like this on your own?'

'We're taking a break,' Hamilton's voice is still shaky. He presses into Thomas, who tries very hard not to say something along the lines of "if you don't fuck off I'll punch your pretty face in".He figures the poor man must be drained. 'I'm rooming with. A friend.'

Thomas is seized by the terrible, terrible impulse to take Hamilton home.

He's in the middle of yelling at himself in his head when Hamilton speaks up, again: 'But it's too fucking far from...here, I don't think - I got an Uber. I can call another one, but I don't know where my fucking phone is -' He peruses his pockets, but only a small amount of change falls onto the ground.

Thomas stares at the coins, picking them up and rubbing them between his freezing fingers. New York is so fucking cold.

'You could, eh, come home with me. My apartment's a block away.'

Thomas is half expecting Hamilton to laugh. Pull away, look at him with the tears still drying on his cheeks, and laugh himself to death. Hell, if James were here, he'd be chortling, too, so hard he'd have a fit. Instead, he feels a gentle movement against his chest: Hamilton's nodding.

(Reluctantly. Thomas tells himself this. He needs to tell himself this. He needs to.)

'Well, we'd best get going or I'm gonna freeze my ass off, and it's a nice ass.' Thomas tries to stand, but he realises several very important things as Hamilton's arms wrap around his chest. 

One: he's pretty drunk. He doesn't even know how many cocktails he's had at this point. He's alright with handling his alcohol if he's carrying home a drunk Jimmy, who mostly just tries to catcall every passing girl - and every boy he thinks is one - but a drunk Hamilton? Who from experience in drunken stupour gets up onto tables and recites the entire United States Constitution at top volume to anyone happening to be unfortunate enough to pass by at the very moment? Who right now is in an extremely emotionally vulnerable state and may at any given moment burst into tears again?

(Sweet Jesus. Thomas is fucked.)

Two: Hamilton smells really good. As in, make-me-physically-shudder-because-I-want-to-wrap-my-hands-around-his-cock good. Thomas doesn't really want to face the prospects of waking up to  _him_ because of his current drunk state, but he doesn't know if he'll be sober enough to even get them both home safely.

Three: if he's drunk, Hamilton is very, very drunk. The man's words are slowly slurring into a language only himself can understand - not very different from the one he speaks normally, then - and frankly, Thomas isn't even sure if he knows it's really Thomas or just another figment of his drunk imagination. He will most definitely not be able to walk slash stagger back to the apartment on his own, and no taxi driver ever comes to this part of New York. 

Hamilton moves. Thomas doesn't. He stays there for a while, holding gingerly onto a warm body that he thought he wanted to take apart.

(The body he owns

(owns him)

does not threaten to leave him. Not yet, anyway.)

 

* * *

 

He ends up carrying Hamilton home.

It must look a sight to anybody passing by: a crying, obviously drunk man curled up in the arms of a cold, obviously drunk man as they stumble along. Thomas nearly trips a dozen times. Hamilton is by no means heavier than any other person he's hoisted up into the air, but he's still got a decent few pounds on him. He's huffing by the time he reaches his flat.

He realises belatedly that Hamilton's fallen asleep when he's trying to reach for his keys and the man's head falls against his shoulder.

'Oh, shit.'

He shifts Hamilton's weight, trying not to jostle him too much, and fumbles the keys out of his pocket, into the lock. It takes an embarrassing amount of time to even open the front door, and Thomas drops Hamilton on the couch as soon as he makes his way in. 

'John,' Hamilton whispers, and Thomas stiffens.

This was a really fucking bad idea.

He divests himself of his jacket and hesitates before stumbling into a quick shower. The cold water is light against his burning skin. His pulse is racing. He doesn't remember the last time it's ever beat this hard, this fast. He closes his eyes and thinks of dancing.

When he emerges, towel hanging limply off of his waist, Hamilton is still asleep on his couch. 

Thomas rolls him over and feels...something, as Hamilton's curls splay out over the obscenely pink cushions. The man's tie looks like it's choking. He absent-mindedly tugs to loosen it, and with gentle fingers undoes it completely. Hamilton's throat is bare: dark skin framed by a crumpled collar. Thomas has the sudden urge to bite into it.

And immediately sates the desire by slapping himself very neatly over the face.

'Well, what am I gonna do with you,' He says, in a voice so soft it surprises himself. He lays the tie away and traces the lines of Hamilton's face with his eyes, every sign of weariness.

_We're taking a break._

Thomas heard about the affair. Hard not to, seeing as how Hamilton plastered it all over his blog. His poor wife.

'So you're in the doghouse. That makes two of us.' 

He doesn't know why he said that. He doesn't remember the last commitment he made. He reflects that he's probably too drunk to be talking out loud like this, now, staring into the however pretty face of a sleeping business rival. Drunk.

The drink. The fucking poison. His head aches. His ear aches. Behind his eyes aches. He doesn't think.

(That's why he lifts Hamilton up and away in his arms and lays him onto his bed, aflutter among soft pillows and Thomas's reject choices of wardrobe. That's also why he presses a kiss to Hamilton's burning forehead before he curls up next to him, lying awake to the sound of breathing that is not his own.)

(Thomas is very good at lying to himself.)

 

* * *

 

Thomas wakes up to cold bedsheets. 

(Of course he does. In the rare event he brings someone to his own place, he always does.)

He gets up, the dull flutter of a hangover thrumming in the space behind his eyes, and slides his blistering feet into bedroom slippers. He moves, sluggish, to the kitchen. He stops. He stares.

Hamilton is standing at the counter, prodding at the instant coffee machine. Sunlight filters through open windows, illuminating his badly hungover face. He doesn't notice Thomas. He doesn't seem to even be awake. He's rubbing at the back of his head, lips moving but no sound coming out. 

Thomas doesn't move.

'Good morning.'

Hamilton snaps awake, at that. Thomas regrets it the instant he sees the sleep melt away, the feral look come into intelligent dark eyes. Making him look small. Afraid. He moves away from the counter - from Thomas - and nearly trips over his own feet.

'I -'

'It's fine. Get me a cup.' Thomas waves a hand, but Hamilton doesn't seem to understand immediately. He sighs and moves towards the smaller man, eclipsing the small kitchen space. It's a relatively small apartment.

Hamilton's shoulders are tense, drawn together so taut they may as well be bow strings, on which arrows are drawn. 

Thomas doesn't think. He puts his hands on them.

 

* * *

 

He sees Hamilton jerk. Surprise. Disbelief. Fear, for a brief second, replaced by anger. He nearly takes them away. He doesn't. He lets his fingers rest, brushing Hamilton's sharp collarbones, trembling skin below warm fingertips.

'What the fuck -'

'Relax. I'm not gonna bite, y'know.' Thomas massages gently, and hears Hamilton wince as he hits a knot. 'And how about that coffee?'

Hamilton is silent for a moment. A brief, precious moment that Thomas will file away in his hall of unbelievable records. 

'You're an asshole.'

But his fingers move anyway, pushing buttons and opening the packet of preground beans. And maybe, just maybe, his shoulders relax under Thomas's hands. Letting Thomas spend whatever the fuck this moment is actually basking in it. The sunshine is warm. The room seems all too warm.

thomas thinks of dancing.

A ding. The coffee is done. Hamilton reaches for two cups sitting on the counter, and Thomas takes the one offered. He pulls it to his lips. Breathes. 

'Thank you.'

He almost misses it. 

He pulls the mug away, and Hamilton is pointedly not looking at him. His hair is a loose mess of dark curls, his clothing even more rumpled, if possible, from last night. Thomas bites down on the sudden urge to run his fingers through it.

'Anytime,' He says, unsure of what he means. Unsure of what it means to Hamilton. 

He wants to ask about Laurens. He wants to ask how one person could ruin another's life completely. He wants to ask how one person could take apart Alexander Hamilton and yet not stand here to witness, and revel in their wake.

He looks at Hamilton, the deadened look in his eyes and the way his hands tremble on the mug, and he doesn't.

'My roommate called,' Hamilton says. 'Mulligan. He wanted to know why I hadn't come home. He sounded like he'd been crying, too.' Thomas catches the tightening of slender fingers. The way smooth lips curl, then go slack, as if even expressing emotion hurts, now.

'I'm sorry.'

it feels empty. those words always do. 

(A prick of something. A needle.)

'I don't think I can...go back. John used to sleep on the couch when I lived there. I can't even go to work because we shared an office. It's like I'm being haunted.' 

Thomas moves forward before he can think about it. He steps into Hamilton's space, and their hips graze: Hamilton's eyes snap upwards, for a moment free from any tormenting emotion.

'Fuck off, Thomas. Anyway, I can't go to my wife because...well, because she filed for divorce a few months ago. And I haven't signed the papers yet, and my sister in law's been buzzing about the house, and I swear she's going to kill me -'

'You could stay here. If you liked.'

'Why?'

The question stings. A slap across the face. Thomas blinks, and the illusion is broken. Hamilton steps away.

'You hate me. I hate you. No, I fucking loathe you. You didn't get the memo? It's like a...a mutual tryst of fuck-you-forever. Why are you trying to help me, now? Is this funny to you?'

Thomas thinks of smooth jazz. Of warm hands on his hips, guiding them into a sensual turnabout of steps, light and airy and the closest he's ever gotten to feeling love. Thomas thinks of dancing.

(Am I dancing? Am I floating? Am I)

'I'm not a complete dick.' He sets the mug down on the counter, and Hamilton's eyes jump to it. Nervous. Of him? Ridiculous. 'I do have a shred of human decency, whatever the tabloids - or your stupid blog - might have the commonfolk think.'

'They're not fucking - they're not commonfolk. What are you, royalty?'

Thomas draws himself up, ready for a fight, but Hamilton's already deflating, every ounce of anger leaving him like air out of a balloon. He feels a stab of something at the sight. 

'- I'm not actively tryna destroy you. Whatever the fuck you might think. And I kinda didn't want you to freeze to death last night.'

'I didn't know you cared.' 

He grins. Hamilton doesn't. It slips away, a sad mockery of a man who's barely a sliver of himself right now. He almost feels guilt.

'I don't,' He says, effortless. Smooth. 'But I am ever the good Samaritan. Wash our cups when you're done, be a dear, Hamilton.' And he slinks away, surprised at his own self.

 

* * *

 

Thomas comes home drunk out of his own mind the night after. Hamilton is sitting upright on the couch, body tense and eyes staring off into nothing. In the dark. It terrifies the hell out of Thomas before he remembers the strange offer he made him.

'Could you turn on the fucking lights? I nearly shit myself.'

Click. Hamilton blinks, as if affronted, and Thomas stumbles forwards, knees weak.

'I take it you're gonna be staying, then.'

'I guess.' Even under these circumstances, he still manages to be a pompous prick. Thomas resists the urge to slap him over his stupid fucking face. 

'Right, then. Some ground rules.' Thomas nearly trips over his own feet, and grabs onto the armrest of a chair precariously. Hamilton's eyes skid down him. They're red-rimmed, like he'd recently cried. 

(Oh, fuck.)

'You're pretty sloshed.'

'If only you were saying I was pretty, sloshed.' Thomas sinks into the chair and flips him off. He knows he's treading on thin ice, but somehow he figures avoiding asking about anything altogether will make this situation less standoffish. If that is possible. 'No fucking. Like. Don't bring anyone back and fuck them on my couch. Which is where you'll be sleeping. Capiche?'

'I think I'm good.' Hamilton's eyes are hard and yet, a sliver of amusement dances in them. 

'Don't break shit. Don't smoke, at least not with the windows closed. And for the love of God if you bring an animal home I will deck your ass so fast, Hamilton.' Thomas is a strangely coherent drunk. His words only slip out faster, slurred, with a bit of a dreamy air to them.

'I understand.'

'Good. Now I'm gonna take a shower, because I'm tired as fuck. Don't knock unless there's a fire.'

'Why would I knock if there was a fire?'

'Funny, real funny.'

 

* * *

 

Thomas works his ass off unwinding a case for the entire week. It ends up with his client satisfied and the jurors impressed, so he counts it as a win, however tired he is. He wants to just go home and peel the sweaty jacket from his shoulders, and fall asleep.

(Fall asleep so his mind doesn't threaten to up and leave again. So he isn't a husk. So he will never be a husk. So)

Instead, he's met with the distinct smell of something burning.

'For fuck's sake,' He curses, 'Who the hell -' and stops short, because the only who it could be is not someone he wants to cuss out in this mindset.

Hamilton is frantic. 

He's running about like a man caught on fire, ponytail dropping loose strands of hair that bounce over his painfully wiry frame, and dark eyes ablaze with panic. Thomas has to admire it for just a moment before he steps in, deciding that the salvage of his kitchen is worth more - probably - than witnessing the great Alexander Hamilton throw a fit about burnt cupcakes, at least in the long run.

'What in the name of goodness do you think you're doin' to my kitchen, Hamilton?'

'Baking,' comes a frazzled reply, before Hamilton lets out a squawk and dives under the counter, where the oven is. He emerges with a tray of steaming cupcakes, half of which are badly burnt. 'I'll clean up, I swear, I just -'

He looks tired. He sounds tired. Hell, Thomas isn't sure if he'll drop right then and there, but Hamilton also looks - if even slightly - happy.

'What'd I miss?'

'Stress baking, mostly.' Hamilton sets the tray down with a huff: his hands are encased in the oven mitts James got him for Christmas as a joke, Thomas doesn't bake. They're rather cute, what with reindeer and snowflakes printed on them. 

'Stress baking?'

'Did I fucking stutter?'

Thomas laughs before he can help it. He's exhausted, and it's been a long fucking week, but it bubbles out of him, something wrecked and something mirthful. 

(He still wants to knock the man the fuck out.)

'Well, need any help? Cos I really don't need a burnt kitchen to wake up to any moment.'

Hamilton eyes him. Thomas can tell the man still hasn't really learned to relax around him yet, so it's natural, their sizing up of the other. To be fair, he still walks a little different when he enters the living room. Like he's squaring up for some big battle.

'Go get a shower, Thomas. You look like shit.'

Coming from you, Thomas thinks, but bites it back. He flips Hamilton off and goes to do exactly that. The cold water, as always, is a blessing.

 

* * *

 

The cupcakes are mostly frosted by the time Thomas comes out of the shower. They're all surprisingly impeccable, at least where the cream covers the blacked out bits, so Thomas takes a gamble and hopes the one he chose isn't too badly burned.

'What the fuck, Thomas.'

'You couldn't finish them on your own, anyway.' If you ignored the parts that tasted like charcoal, they were pretty damn good. Thomas waves the cupcake around, taking bites at intervals as Hamilton's frown dissipates.

'I haven't done this in a while. Don't usually eat them.'

A bitter taste fills Thomas's mouth, and he doubts it's from the cupcake. How could he have forgotten the sole reason Hamilton was here? How could he have mistaken what the stress baking was even for?

(i mean, i hate the man's fucking guts, but if i lost Jimmy i'd be wrecked.)

None of them speak, for a while. Thomas finishes the cupcake, even though it feels like the sweetness is rising in his throat, threatening to choke him.

'You can put those in the fridge, if you want.'

He gestures towards the remainder, sitting perfectly frosted on the counter, somehow now free of any crumbs, dirty equipment or stray ingredient packets. Say what you'd like about Hamilton, but he sure was goddamned efficient.

'I usually throw them out.'

'That's just a waste of cupcake, asshole. Put them in the fridge.' Thomas scratches at his hair, and belatedly realises Hamilton's in the same clothes as when he'd first come here. Come to think of it, had the man even showered? Had he time at all? 'Fuck. Didya even step into the shower at all?'

Hamilton bristles.

'I don't exactly have a fresh set of clothes -'

'It's been three fucking days, Hamilton, and you didn't think to say anything? Christ.' Thomas stares at him, takes in again the lines on his face, the way his shoulders don't match in the way they slope downwards. 'Go take a shower right now. I don't give a fuck how depressed you are, go and take a fucking shower.'

He almost shoves Hamilton into the bathroom, and closes the door with a thud. A moment later, there is the sound of a belt hitting the floor, and then running water. 

Thomas sighs. Then he trudges away, to put the rest of the cupcakes in the fridge - sneaking another one as he does so. 

'I just wanted a shower and some sleep,' He tells the empty kitchen. It, thank goodness, doesn't answer, reassuring him of some semblance of his sanity - though with a man he loathes in his bathroom, touching and probably using the soaps and scents he does, he really doesn't know how solid of a reassurance that is.

The wrapper crinkles, like it's laughing at him.

 

* * *

 

Hamilton fairly stares when Thomas thrusts an old, ratty T-shirt and a pair of jeans he can't wear anymore into his arms. Glares, more like it. Fucking eyeballs him.

'I don't need -'

'My pity? My hand-me-downs? Too bad, because your clothes fucking reek, and I'm poppin' them into the wash the first chance I get.' 

Hamilton can't seem to formulate a quick enough response to that, so Thomas just slams the door on him again. It's oddly satisfying and effective, that. He can't say it's not a repressed dream he's had ever since Hamilton first opened his fucking mouth. At least, not honestly.

He emerges later with the T-shirt hanging off his shoulders and the waistband of the jeans almost sagging down completely.

'You're three sizes too big.'

'How about you're just tiny,' Thomas says, but he fetches him a belt anyway, however funny the prospect of seeing Hamilton have to hike up his pants every five minutes as he scuffles around the apartment is.

Hamilton shies away from his touch, fingers barely passing over where Thomas' are on the belt when he hands it over. 

(Thomas pretends it doesn't bother him. He thinks of a quick beat, EDM blaring at top volume in a shady nightclub somewhere. Someone tossing their bra into open space, catching the light of an old fashioned disco. Grinding his hips to the beat, slow and steady and sensual. Thomas thinks of dancing.)

 

* * *

  

 'I'm just going to have to ask you to repeat that,' James says, and Thomas obliges.

'Hamilton's living with me.'

'What the fuck, Tom.' The man's hands are thrown up in a display of truly what-the-fuck, and Thomas stifles a burst of laughter. 'I don't understand you. You wax poetic about how much you hate this man. You've spent hours cursing him in my hearing, and every time we happen to bump into him you're all sarcasm and simpers.'

'We're not fucking, Christ. He's just living with me till he can get a foot back on the saddle.'

'Why you? He has like, five other friends. I get that he can't go to his wife, but work? That's stupid. He's addicted to it, Tom. I once saw him throw a hissy fit because his case got suspended or whatever.'

'I don't know.' Thomas wonders why, now. It's been a week. Hamilton could have left at any moment. He hasn't. He sleeps on the couch, in Thomas's jumpers and sweatpants and his hair up in different styles every day, too messy to be out but not exactly slolly, either. He bakes. He hums. 

(And Thomas will never breathe a word aloud, but in the middle of the night, he goes out to get a breath of fresh air and Hamilton will be beside himself in tears, body shaking as he cries. The only time he ever gets to. Thomas stands there every time, unsure what to do. Unsure if he could even do anything. And he'll wait till the sobs die down, and then he'll go and drape a rug over Hamilton's trembling body and back to sleep. He's never been caught yet.)

'I'm just saying, you're fucking weird.'

'And I heard you and Burr went out for drinks the other night.' Thomas leans across the table and crooks an eyebrow. 'That guy is fucking weird. He gives me bad vibes.'

'He introduced me to this girl.' And hell if Jimmy doesn't go beet fucking red all over. 'She's...she's really pretty, Tom.'

And like that, the subject of Hamilton goes out the window. Thomas wonders sometimes if manipulativeness is a merit. If being able to steer control of any conversation at any given time is a trait his mother would praise him for.

(He's never been able to sway any argument with Hamilton. Any debate.)

'So I presume you got her number?'

The grin is enough of an answer.

'I'm taking her to Laf's this Friday. You know, the dance thing? Are you going?'

'Considering it. If I can wrap my case up in time, probably.' He hasn't danced in a while. 'I don't have anyone to go with: I thought you'd be my wingman, you traitor. Lafayette won't shut the fuck up about Washington, anyhow. I swear, if the man can't get in his pants by the end of the month, I'm buying us an Italian dinner.'

James's laugh is deep and smooth, rocking slightly, like the sea on a calm day.

'An Italian dinner to you, Tommy, is mac and cheese. And hey. You could always ask Hamilton.'

'Oh, shut the fuck up.'

But afterwards, when they've split and Thomas returns to find Hamilton out cold on the couch, a plate of what looks like cold curry on the table, he begins to seriously question both his sanity and the suggestion in itself.

 

* * *

 

'Thomas,' He hears the next day, and looks up to see Hamilton hovering in his doorway. He brushes down his lapels and nods for him to come in. Hamilton does, but not without hesitation.

(He walks light around him. Never lingers too long. Sometimes he stares into empty space for hours and hours, and Thomas has to shake him to remind him that a human body requires food and cleaning to work properly. Thomas is never gentle. It is not a trait commonly found in those of his breed.)

'Hamilton.'

'I'm not going to be sleeping here tonight.' Hamilton sets his jaw, and Thomas realises something's up. He turns towards the smaller man.

'Going back to your friend's?'

'I'm going to sign for divorce. I just thought I'd stay for a night, check on my...kids.' He worries his lower lip. Thomas has the sudden, overbearingly sudden urge to kiss it raw. He holds himself back, but not without a surge of repulsion at his own desire. 'It's better for them, like this.'

'Oh.' Thomas searches Hamilton's eyes.

(They are dark and cold. When you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back into you.)

'I just thought I'd, you know, say something.'

_why do i hate this man? this small man in front of me, holding the weight of his world and his children's on crumbling shoulders_

_how can i hate him?_

_(how can they love him?)_

'Well, rest assured the apartment and a burned oven will be waiting if you decide to come back.' 

Hamilton breathes, shaky. Then, much to Thomas's surprise, he lurches forward.

For a moment, there is nothing but empty space between bodies. Light and space, twisting to meet the eye, mocking and flirting and laughing as skin aches to remember skin. For a moment, Thomas is reminded of a particular summer day and light raindrops against skin and a dark skinned woman leaning out over the railing to let him twirl her to the wild, crazed beat of the drums.

(For a moment, Thomas wants to hate Hamilton. Hate him for the cheating whore and the hypocritical fucker and the elitist piece of shit he is. Hate him for ruining whatever peace, whatever sanctuary Thomas built himself from bones too warm and skin too thin to hold another person inside a skinny ribcage. Hate him for destroying himself when all Thomas ever wanted was to see Alexander Hamilton fall apart.)

(For a moment, Thomas wants to peel away. Needs to peel away.)

(Can't stay. Can't stay.)

Then there is only Hamilton. Warmth, pressed to his body, shooting sparks down his spine and numbing his hands, static at his sides, shoulders rolling and sloping downwards as Hamilton curls himself, the caricature of intimacy around Thomas. Hamilton searching, perhaps, for another instance of reality where Thomas would willingly let himself touch and be touched by someone like him. Hamilton's head somehow finding the nook between Thomas's neck and ear and fitting in so well they slot like a key into its keyhole, rusted and weary from misuse.

thomas breathes.

Hamilton is very still. 

(If Thomas were a braver man, perhaps he would kiss him. Perhaps he would, if only he were that brave, run a finger down the side of Hamilton's jawline where days worth of stubble is collecting, crook that finger under a chin defiant despite everything else, and pull him in close.)

(And perhaps Thomas is not as brave as he'd like to think, but that doesn't mean he does not kiss back.)

 

* * *

 

Thomas comes home to darkness.

He doesn't hasten to turn on the light. Rather, he reaches blind into drawers he's opened umpteenth times over, searching for a memory locked away. A memory sealed. A memory only recently opened.

The music plays, and Thomas moves. It's a sad, sweet sort of song. He lets his hands and legs move on their own, giving up the body he has so long been slave to, giving it back onto itself. His feet roll. His shoulders slide just like his eyes, open and closed, a different message in every low crooning note.

(i am in control. i am in control.)

He opens a bottle of wine - off brand, dollar store because he never wants to get drunk off of expensive wine - and finds it slipping of his grip, every slosh a new stain added to the pristine carpet, every jerk of his wrist a mistake to be scrubbed at days from now. 

(And isn't it funny, how inconsequential some things can be.)

He doesn't - pointedly - think of Hamilton.

He doesn't think of bright eyes lighting up like stars and jabbing fingers and two hands that may well be a performance on their own, conductor to the orchestra of a body Hamilton can assume full control over. He doesn't think of words so sharp they draw blood as they flick over the air, feather light and just as 

(inconsequential)

deadly.

Thomas's thoughts slur into a puddle. His thoughts about Hamilton - and not - become some sort of melting pot of memories he is too drunk to sift through and when sobre, too much so to, and he finds himself thinking of Hamilton's lips, Hamilton's warmth resting firmly on his.

Hamilton's stupid fucking mouth.

Hamilton's affair.

Hamilton's consequential divorce.

Hamilton, drunk and crying.

_i hate him. i hate alexander hamilton._

_(but how can i?)_

 

* * *

 

He remembers several things:

warm, perhaps trembling(?) fingers threading through his hair, brushing it from his face as gentle as a lover's touch, twigs and branches of flesh slowly skimming over the plains of his face. 

sticky eyes, and how he has to peer through them.

someone shaking as he touches him. someone, perhaps, overcome by an emotion he has not felt for sometime. not like this.

someone's breathing. short and stuttered and sharp, driving something straight through thomas's chest. and then bursts of them, like explosions, like someone is fighting to breathe. gasping and clawing. thomas remembers panic. thomas remembers the fingers going slack, then tighten, then slack, then tighten.

the panic attack passing. the tears dying down. only the sound of sniffles, and the sensation of someone warm, something warm, a body that is not his, a body he has no control over.

a body. a body that is not his. a body that perhaps because it is not his that thomas begins to fear. 

(And if he reaches out and tugs the body a little closer, no one knows any better.)

Thomas Jefferson is not one for unnecessary sentiment. But he's hit hard in the chest with the realisation when he wakes, eyes still sticky and tear stains drying on his burning skin, the warm body that is not his curled up against his chest, that he wants Alexander Hamilton to stay.

_  
_

* * *

 

Thomas can't bring himself to focus.

The face of the Judge blurs in and out of his vision. His client is stumbling over his sentences and he should really be plotting an intervention sometime soon, but his mind isn't into it.

_focus._

He pulls through - barely - and doesn't stay to see how his client reacts after.

'I need a fuckin' drink.'

(And a therapist, a voice whispers.)

James's phone goes straight to voicemail. Thomas entertains the brief notion of ringing up Lafayette, the perky Frenchman he met at a function sometime ago, but decides against it. Lafayette is almost always shadowed by the intimidating Washington, after all, and Thomas isn't looking to have a heart to heart with the man who almost owns Hamilton just yet.

Instead, he goes home. 

 

* * *

 

Hamilton isn't baking, or cooking, or even in the kitchen at all. He sits on the couch amidst a flurry of papers, wadded up and otherwise, and there's an intense look of concentration on his face as his fingers fairly fly over the keyboard of his Mac.

Thomas slips out of his dress shoes. He fucking hates those things. He hates a lot of things he does anyway.

(And maybe he is the hypocrite after all.)

'Welcome back,' Hamilton says, without looking up. 

Thomas grunts in response. 

'I'm trying to work on my blog,' The man says, as if he doesn't seem to pick up on Thomas's lack of interest in starting or moving along any sort of conversation with him. 'I heard you won your case today. Congratulations.'

'Barely. Your sarcasm is as always, stimulating.' 

Hamilton stares at him for a while. A long while, in which Thomas shifts his toes discreetly, picking at the buttons of his suit. And then his teeth gleam in an annoying grin.

'You came back early, today.'

(They haven't talked about the kiss. Like they haven't talked about the first night. Like they haven't talked about the panic attacks or Hamilton in Thomas's clothes, oversized and almost falling off his shoulders. Like they haven't talked about Hamilton still living here at all.)

Thomas shifts, makes his way to the couch. 

'I did.'

Hamilton's wearing one of Thomas's old university things, a creased Yale hoodie, and a pair of grey sweatpants. Thomas wants to kiss him.

(Thomas is not very good at lying to himself.)

'I wanted to ask your opinion on Brexit.'

Thomas blinks.

'I think it was a stupid idea.'

'Obviously. Why?' Hamilton turns, and Thomas feels something lift in him. Even for just a moment, there is a sliver of something Thomas recognises from the Hamilton that used to stand in court, the hurricane of words and gestures and pure, unadulterated anger and self righteousness, that flickers in dark eyes.

'The economy will crumble. Has. Britain's gonna lose global opportunities, and it's basically cutting ties and trade links like that. Snip, snip.'

Hamilton eyes him.

'You're right.'

'I'm sorry?' Thomas leans forward, grinning. 'Could you repeat that so I can make it my ringtone, darlin'?' The endearment slips out before he can help it: it's just there. Like a lot of things are there.

(Music. And people. And human touch. And anxiety and depression and grief.)

Hamilton barely notices it. He only smiles, a lot more genuine than he's ever given Thomas, and it makes something flutter behind a ribcage too small to hold the weight of another. 

'I said you're right, asshole. As much as I hate to admit it. Not to mention how the effects aren't just going to be on Britain itself: Ireland will suffer, not just economy wise.' Something crosses his face, a dark, furtive sort of look, and then passes. 'And what of the future - the current ratrace for American presidency? What are your opinions on that?'

'I try to keep my nose out of politics,' Thomas smiles, thinking of days when he couldn't. 'I lived in France for a while, it was hard to reintroduce myself to...all this. Suffice to say American politics aren't my strongest suit.'

He thinks about arguing with Hamilton. Thinks of sneers and ill mannered jabs and loathing, a fire that licks at his insides like a furnace. 

'Is this your strongest suit?' Hamilton reaches out

(thomas stiffens)

and flicks at one of the buttons. 

For a moment, they both freeze.

Thomas thinks about hating Hamilton. Of seeing him go by with a cocktail of anger and jealousy and just pure disdain exploding in his chest. Of reading his outrageous blog posts, pausing to sneer at every sentence, trying to find a fault in the embroidery, pick out the stray thread and cling onto it. Thomas thinks of hating Hamilton, hating him and his stupid face and his stupid fucking mouth and -

And that mouth is on his, again.

Hamilton kisses like he's running out of time. Deep and slow but also urgent; he arches into Thomas and his tongue trails absently over Thomas's lower lip as he nips and kisses. Thomas finds his hands entangled in Hamilton's stupid ponytail, hooking through the band and undoing it: he kisses Hamilton

(lazy, languid, slow)

and hair falls over the smaller man's shoulders, a spray of darkness.

'Oh,' He says.

Hamilton turns his face away, breathing. Not heavily. Not in a winded way. Not anything. Just breathing. 

Thomas watches his chest and shoulders rise and fall. A body he has control over. He feels his own seize up. A body he has none.

'I'm sorry,' Hamilton says. It's low. Soft. Thomas wants to catch the words between their teeth, ride the rhythm out between their bodies like they're dancing. On the tip of a blade, on the edge of the abyss. 'This was a mistake, I -'

Hurt.

Hurt stabs through Thomas, deep and fast, arcing through him like a strike of lightning. 

of course it was a mistake.

(John?) and tearful dark eyes

Hamilton. Hamilton crying. Hamilton drunk. Hamilton sobbing his heart out, Hamilton curled up asleep against Thomas's chest

(anxiety and depression and grief)

thomas pulls away. 

'I think you should go,' He says, and is surprised at the empty that follows.

 

* * *

 

Thomas fucks a young girl in the weekend. He doesn't go to the dance. He goes to a bar and gets piss drunk, and picks up the first legal one he finds. She's pretty, and blonde, and he can't remember her name already, but she'll do.

She makes the prettiest noises.

He spends time teasing them out of her, deft fingers and experienced mouth moving on the warmth of her body, and she fairly screams when she climaxes. Her eyes roll back into her head. She is beautiful.

Thomas stretches out on the hotel bed and thinks of dancing. 

Her mouth bobs on his cock. 

(Hamilton, under the light of a well lit ballroom, hair groomed back and tie cherry red and twirling on his own.)

She wiggles her body as she moves her lips, and Thomas bites down on a whine. His body is not his. His body is somewhere else

(dancing)

(Hamilton. Hamilton stretched out and gasping, eyes fluttering open and shut in coital bliss as his hips rock to a rhythm only Thomas is supposed to know. Hamilton, lips, eyes, eyes open, eyes focused, eyes on Thomas. Eyes on Thomas's body.)

He seizes up as orgasm takes hold of him, white for a moment fading out his vision. His body jolts awake. His mind jerks. 

(Or is it the other way around¿)

Thomas comes, gasping and breathless.

'Oh,' He says, 'Oh.'

 

* * *

 

He checks his emails in the afternoon. It's something he hasn't done in a while, doesn't really do. People who know him well know that if it's anything urgent, they'd be better off actually ringing him up. Who even uses emails anymore?

(Hamilton. Hamilton once emailed him an entire ten paragraphs on how his then current client had been scum and exactly why.)

Thomas frowns.

He scrolls through endless Facebook notifications and those from his favourite ASMR channels. ASMR always helped him to cope. Perhaps he'd have to pick up the habit again.

(Reintroductions. Thomas was never good with those.)

_Update from turtlelovinglawyer.blogspot.com. Click here to unsubscribe from A. Ham's blog. Click here to be redirected to the latest blog post._

Thomas's fingers tremble on the mouse. It moves almost of its own volition, a live ticking thing with a tail that seems to command Thomas's hand.

(The lines between love and hate, he thinks, but does not understand, are paper thin and sometimes, disappear altogether.)

 

* * *

 

Hercules Mulligan answers the door. He looks at Thomas for a while, takes in how the latter is practically dripping over the front steps, but doesn't unlatch the front door. He just stares.

'Hello.'

'Hi.' Thomas tries to wring the water out of his frizzly curls. 'Is Hamilton home?'

'He's been in the public library all week,' Mulligan says. His dark eyes seem to pierce straight through Thomas. Even from here, you could tell how protective this man can get of people he loves. 

(how can they love him?)

'Oh. Alright, then.'

'Wait.' The door shuts. Something clicks, and then it swings open fully, showing Mulligan half-dressed, fluffy slippers on his feet.

Thomas bounces back and forth on the heels of his feet, unsure what he's doing and why.

(Something pricks behind his eyes. Something pricks.)

'Don't go looking for him. Okay? He's been - he's been fine, these few days.' Mulligan scratches absently at the waistband of his sweatpants, dark blue and distracting. 'And I don't think he'd want to see you.'

(Of course. Of course he'd have told Mulligan something. Of course Hamilton wouldn't want to see him.)

Something big aches behind Thomas's ribcage.

'Of course. Well, I'll go, now.'

Thomas can feel the heat of Mulligan's eyes on his back as he turns back into the heavy shower of rain. Light droplets against burning skin. He sticks out his tongue absently, catches a drop that rolls into the back of his mouth and tastes like earth.

He thinks of kissing Hamilton.

Every taste in his mouth.

Coffee, bitter as fuck, black. Scalding sips over a simple kitchen counter. 

Cake. Cookies. Whatever he baked that day. Catching fingertips covered with icing sugar and pulling on them, laughing. Hamilton's dark eyes and wide grin.

Ink on calloused fingertips digging into the back of his neck. 

Nails, chewed on from either nerves or irritation, on hands small, fingers Thomas knows like a map. A map he can trace in darkness.

(he thinks of dancing.)

 

* * *

 

Thomas opens his eyes.

There are fairy lights and light, tinkling music, and people dancing. Girls in pastel shades with soft skin and softer lips, sugar that dissolves under touch. Boys twirling about, subtle in pale waistcoats, glitter coating their eyelids.

The atmosphere is soft, and warm, and lovely.

There's a giggle to his right. Two young girls are bobbing awkwardly to the music, and their feet get caught up in the rhythm as they move, jerky but somehow still musical, hands tangled in hands. Their foreheads bump. Their fingers catch. They kiss, clumsy and natural and young.

Thomas doesn't stare for very long. He moves on, searching for Jimmy.

'Why aren't you dancing, Tom?'

James finds him, later, nursing a glass of punch in his hands - about the strongest drink in the vicinity - and standing alone in the corner, staring out at the couples as they twist and turn.

'Not up to it,' He says. It's easy to lie. Maybe not always, and not to everyone, but it's easy to lie to James, here, blissed out by whatever was in the punch and flushed from dancing. 'Is that the girl you were talkin' about? She's a catch.'

James frowns at him: even through this haze, he can tell something's wrong. 

'I hate it when you try to change the subject, Tom. It's like you're insulting me, but going easy on that, too.' His eyes are annoyingly perceptive. 

'I'm not -'

'It's about Hamilton, isn't it?' James asks, and Thomas feels his stomach do a flip. 'I fucking knew it. Tom, you can't mope 'round forever for a guy that doesn't - that can't even handle himself.' He catches Thomas by the hand, the way they used to dance when they were younger.

Thomas stares at him. He feels coolness spread over his face, drown his vision in a black nothingness.

'I'm not moping.'

'Come dance with us,' James persists. 

(Thomas's lower lip trembles. He imagines Hamilton where James is, soft fingers and eyes downcast, lashes fluttering slightly.)

(He imagines teaching Hamilton how to dance.)

'Okay.'

 

* * *

 

The bell rings. Thomas does not jolt awake immediately. He does not jolt awake at all. His eyes flutter, but his mind is still soaring into somewhere his body is not. Panic seizes the part of him still conscious. An intrusion, molesting the tranquility he allowed himself to believe.

It rings, again.

'Wait,' He almost screams through gritted teeth. Whoever's outside falls silent. 

Thomas remembers his legs and stumbles up onto them. The numbness shoots straight through, a sharp bolt of pain awakening every muscle in him, and he curses. 

A headache pounds behind his eyes. He is dizzy. He is hungover. He is wearing last night's clothes and his hair is stuck to the side of his face.

'The door's unlocked,' He says, bleary. 

There is a pause.

(Thomas hates silence. So easy to fill. So difficult to muster up the energy to.)

He reaches for the knob, impossibly far, and swimming in and out of his vision, but it twists before his shaky fingers can reach. The door swings open.

'Oh,' He says, and promptly passes out.

 

* * *

 

There's a flurry of noise. Noise, and colour. The two things Thomas's world seems to lack right now.

(The two things always associated with him.)

There are soft fingers on his face. Like a memory. Twigs and branches of flesh, gentle and warm. Thomas thinks of glitter on eyelids and brilliant smiles, of young girls dancing.

'Hamilton,' He says.

Hamilton's fingers freeze. No, that's not the right word.

Freeze indicates being cold. Hamilton is not cold. Hamilton is a furnace of anger and passion and pure aggression, opinions blazing like the butts of cigarettes, the flicker of flame in a candle as hot wax hits the edge of Thomas's bathtub.

(Thomas is cold.)

'Thomas.'

The voice washes over him. Warm. Soft. Enveloping. Like ripples in a sauna. A hot spring in Japan he remembers sinking into, his hair soft and pliant under the scalding water.

(Dead skin breaking away. Dead skin. That's what this body is.)

His ear gives a funny little throb.

Thomas can see. Thomas chooses not to. He chooses the colours he can hold onto, the soft lines of Hamilton's face. He chooses Hamilton, right now clothed in one of his ugly fake designer suits and a terribly offensive chartreuse tie. He chooses stepping away from a crowded dance floor, knocking over the bottle of cheap wine. Stains on the carpet. Heated debates on the courtroom floor.

'What'd I miss?' He asks, and Hamilton moves in.

(Heat. So much heat. Licking away at his insides, burning what skin Thomas can feel yet. His mind heaves, anchored to this body, anchored to his instance of reality. It does not let go. He does not let go. He will not let it go.)

They're kissing. It's a hateful thing. It's soft and warm and Hamilton's mouth opens when Thomas licks at his lower lip, and Thomas hates it.

Hamilton shivers when Thomas's hands rove, tangling themselves in his thin shirt and God why are there so many buttons who fucking designed this he's going to choke them Thomas rakes his teeth over the buttons with so much force they come apart in his mouth, a pop and they go flying, scattered over dusty floorboards.

Hamilton grins, and surges forward.

'Missed me, huh.'

'I wouldn't say that,' Thomas says, teeth finding a spot between Hamilton's jaw and neck that makes the smaller man squirm. 'It's been a nice thing, having my couch back.'

'I fucking hate you.' 

Hamilton's fingers rake over his skin, angry red lines that fade into white ones, and Thomas marvels at himself as he sinks into a deeper kiss, but just as gentle, as they're still testing the waters of whatever bizarre turn of events their relationship has come to. Hate, Thomas decides. Hate, and 

(love¿)

'Hey,' Hamilton says. Thomas blinks.

He's somehow shirtless, now, and Hamilton's straddling his lap, mouth pink and hanging open just a little, hair a rumple of darkness falling over his skin.

'Hey.'

'Hey.' Hamilton kisses him. Thomas wants to push him away. Knock him over. Knock him senseless. Knock himself out. Thomas wants to see Hamilton fall apart. He wants to put himself back together. He wants to

'Hey,' And Hamilton's hands find either side of his face. Dark eyes peer down at him, curious and hesitant and perhaps even tender. 

Perhaps even concerned.

'Thomas?'

Something wells up in his throat. He's breathing Hamilton's air. There are warm fingers on his cheeks, brushing slightly at the plains, fingertips light and soft. 

'I missed you,' He finds himself saying. His tongue is his. This body is his.

(Why is it that when he is touching a body that is not that he feels this?)

Hamilton's mouth dips. Then it curves, ever so slightly, and he's kissing Thomas again. This time Thomas does not mistake the bundle in his stomach for nerves, or the blood rushing from his head down south for irritation. This time Thomas is certain of what he wants and when, and he closes the gap between their bodies with only his own.

Hamilton's shirt falls off easy enough, the buttons having become not more than accessory to Thomas's living room floor. His tie is a little more difficult, so they leave it there.

(It's hotter, that way. Like a collar.)

Thomas kisses and licks every inch of exposed skin. Burning hot under his tongue. Hamilton arches his back and whines, keens for him, and Thomas lets his hands rove over his body, drawing shudders and low, growling noises out of his throat, his chest.

'Thomas,' He keeps saying. Like his name means something. Like he means something. Like he's someone that should mean something.

'I hate you,' Thomas growls. Hamilton shudders, nips at his neck in an expression of aggression. Need.

'I know. Thomas, Thomas,  _fuck, Thomas.'_

'You're gonna be so good for me, aren't you? You're gonna be such a good boy for me, take my cock like a fucking angel. Don't want to wake the neighbours, now, do we? Fuck. I hate you. Fuck, I -'

Thomas takes Hamilton's earlobe into his mouth, between his warm lips, and the man bucks. He's shaking. Thomas has a hand on Hamilton's thigh and that's shaking, too. Hamilton's eyes are open, his cheeks flushed, head thrown back and hair asplay. Hamilton is beautiful.

'Thomas -'

'Hush,' Thomas says, still nibbling on Hamilton's ear, and next goes Hamilton's belt. 

Hamilton goes very still when Thomas hooks his fingers through the waistband of his trousers, pulls him close. Thomas gives his ear a last hungry nip and draws away. They stare at each other. 

Intensity.

(Burning. Burning, burning intensity.)

Thomas almost laughs, how nostalgic this is. Then he turns solemn, brushing what exposed skin he can touch from where his fingers are, the soft curve where Hamilton's back meets his hips, a perfect ass. A shiver runs down Hamilton's body. Like oil. Like clockwork.

'Are you gonna be quiet, Hamilton?'

silence. thomas hates silence.

And then Hamilton opens his mouth - if barely.

'Alex.' Hamilton's teeth are practically buried in his lower lip. He looks at Thomas and Thomas wants to take him apart. 'Please, I - call me Alex.'

'Are you going to be quiet,' Thomas draws each word out, long and measured, and Hamilton's teeth dig in just a bit deeper, '- Alex?' His fingers dip down, and Hamilton - Alex nods, a little bit breathless, rocking his hips into the mattress. Into Thomas. He decides he likes Hamilton like this. Silent.

(his.)

'Good boy.' 

Thomas tugs, and Hamilton's boxers come away. He revels, in the moment, the exposure, how easy it is to render the master speaker speechless. 

'Thomas -'

'Shh.'

He's already half hard, Hamilton, precome glistening along the head of his dick. Thomas cocks his head and looks at him, wondering what it would be like to just up and leave. Leave Hamilton alone like this, naked and humiliated. The thought goes to his cock, too, and he bites back a noise.

'I wanna -' Hamilton breaks away. He's actually shaking, thighs trembling in a way that makes Thomas a little concerned. But only a little.

'Tell me, darlin'.'

Thomas's nose brushes Hamilton's face gently. He feels the smaller man's chest rise and fall beneath his. He catches wrists smaller than his, threads his fingers through those longer, softer.

(He could break Hamilton like this. Turn him over and fuck him till he screams, deny him orgasm and shove him out into the cold, half dressed. Part of him aches to do that. To end this. Whatever this is.)

'I want you to fuck me.'

Thomas blinks. 

(his mind is far, far away from dancing.)

'Is that what you want? You want me to fuck you, Alex? You want my cock, do you? Want me to be inside you, filling you up and fucking till you can't sit down for a week. Till you're screaming and begging for it, that you can't think of anything but me. Is that what you want?' Punctuated by a snap of his hips as he grinds down onto Hamilton's naked hardness, and the latter whines. 'Shh, now. You promised you'd be quiet, darlin'.'

Hamilton seems to struggle with it for a moment, mouth opening and closing to catch his breath.

'Please,' He says, 'Thomas, please, fuck me.'

(And Thomas has never been one to say no to people who begged nicely.)

 

* * *

 

Hamilton is not good at keeping his word.

Thomas runs his finger around the smaller man's hole and he bucks, thighs quivering. A small, needy noise escapes from his throat. Thomas frowns and smacks him over his right cheek, earning another whimper and then almost complete stillness.

(A rush of warmth.)

'Of course you'd get off on that, huh.' 

'I fucking - I hate you.'

'Be a good boy for me,' He hums, coating his fingers with lube: Thomas is never wanting when it comes to lubricant, or condoms, for the matter. No one as sexually active as he is should ever be.

Hamilton's body shakes, as if in response.

(This is him. This is me, taking him apart bit by bit. Watching him tremble and shake and beg, plead and whine, scrape at my feet. Brick by brick, I will tear down what structure Hamilton thinks he is.)

Thomas slips the first finger in, and Hamilton goes very still.

'Good boy.' 

'Th-Thomas,' Hamilton says, as if he wants to say something, perhaps beg for more, but Thomas is already twisting the finger in the wet heat, tightening so well around him. Hamilton seizes up, full on shaking, and whines; Thomas's fingers are prodding and swirling, opening up and getting him nice and loose. 'Oh -  _Thomas -'_

Another hard smack across the ass, and Hamilton breaks away into whimpers. His hands fist in the cushions.

'Friendly reminder,' Thomas pushes a second digit in, and Hamilton shakes, 'That I told you to be quiet. Alex?' The name is experimental on his tongue. His teeth. He uses them now, scrapes over Hamilton's back, bare skin that is burning under his touch, and Hamilton buries his head in the couch, fairly sobs.

(Oh. Oh. Thomas has never been so far away from dancing. His blood rushes hot. His pulse is racing; he can't hear over the din in his ears.)

He presses kisses down Hamilton's spine, pausing when he reaches the curve of his ass to bite instead, pushing and kneading under his free hand and marvelling at every inch of skin Hamilton lets him take in his hands and worship. He spreads Hamilton's ass with his free hand and slaps him again, the sound buzzing in open space.

Hamilton makes a sound most accurately described as a  _hhng_ and bucks again.

'So beautiful. So beautiful, Alex. So good for me.' Thomas sinks a third finger in, down to the knuckles. Hamilton doesn't seem capable of making coherent noises anymore. His face is buried in the cushions, his body twisting, hips rocking wildly, hair rumpled, a mess. Thomas can only imagine how hard he is, pressed against the couch by only Thomas's weight. 'Look at you. Look at you, darlin', you're gorgeous.'

'Thomas, please. P -  _oh! - please,_ Th -'

The sound Hamilton makes when he doesn't finish Thomas's name is nothing short of beautiful, and it rushes straight to Thomas's cock, jumping where it's still straining in his pants.

'Darlin',' He says, massaging around the spot, and Hamilton moans, a filthy sound that makes Thomas's free hand fly to his dick. 'You have to be m-more patient, you know, you rush dreadfully into things -'

'I can take it.' Hamilton's shaking so much he might be having a seizure. Thomas slaps him on the ass again and he whines, spreads his legs in a way so obscene it should be illegal. 'I can - Thomas, please, I can t-take it, fuck me, fuck me already!'

(Warmth, unfurling and expanding in his chest. Something that bites.)

He exhales shakily and smacks Hamilton's ass again, watches how it shakes with the pressure. His fingerprints, red and angry, lie atop the rosy cheeks. 

'Just a mo.'

Hamilton thinks better than to push, and falls silent, only for the occasional guttural groan as Thomas skirts his fingers around his prostate again. Thomas watches his back tremble, watches the lines of his body rise and fall to meet Thomas's fingers, grabs the curve of his ass and grinds into it.

Hamilton must be painfully hard. Should be. Thomas thinks of his cock, pressed as it is into cold couch cushions. Perhaps trapped between his belly and the couch. Leaking, with unadulterated longing, and stiff, not much different from his own.

His hands fly to his zipper, and he works out his dick as quickly as he can. It's almost painful.

Hamilton moans when Thomas lets his cock fall between his ass cheeks, trailing it over his wet pink hole and slapping - with the noise appropriate - the cheeks in question. 

'If you're not gonna be quiet, Alex, I'm not going to fuck you.'

Thomas seizes a fistful of hair, and Hamilton jerks upright, body rising to meet him. Still he teases, moves his dick along the side of Hamilton's asshole, touching but never really giving in to what Hamilton wants. The smaller man is almost crying for release, but he can do nothing about it.

(This is Alexander Hamilton. This is the man Thomas loathes.)

'You want me to fuck you? Stop whining.' Thomas curls his fingers in Hamilton's hair. Soft. Hamilton's body is a temple beneath him, in all its majesty, a shrine built for worshipping. 'Beg. And properly. You want my cock, darlin'?'

'Please,' Hamilton grits out, and it's soft and raw and broken, 'Please, Th-Thomas, please fuck me.'

Thomas slaps him over the ass again and Hamilton chokes on a sob, rocks with his body as it reacts to the invasion, this humiliation. Thomas is rock hard and leaking against Hamilton's hole and it's killing him. Hamilton is killing him.

'What do you call Washington, hmm? "Your Excellency"? "Mr Washington"? I bet you'd have more respect if it were him fucking you.'

Hamilton wriggles, shakes his head no in an explosion of fury and indignation (and perhaps, a great need to be filled by a certain tease's cock sometime very soon). 

'S-sir.'

'I'm sorry?' Thomas pulls his fingers out, and Hamilton's body shakes, perhaps missing the prodding warmth. He coats his cock with lubricant, massages it slowly, and the keening noise Hamilton makes when he realises what the sounds are is gratifying. 

'I call him sir,' Hamilton says, and he sounds embarrassed, almost humiliated. 

(thomas is a sick, sick man, and he loves it.)

Thomas grins and tugs on Hamilton's tie, still dangling limply from his neck. 'Good boy. I wonder if you'd still beg for it,' He says, pulling just a little, so Hamilton has to tilt his head backwards, a long neck and bare skin, 'If I asked you to call me "sir".'

There's a small, sharp stuttering of breath, and then Hamilton's head drops forward when Thomas lets go of the tie.

'Please fuck me,' He says, quiet, 'S-sir.'

 

* * *

 

Thomas thinks about it for a moment.

Then he grins.

'I like it when you call me that. Like holding you down like this. Shows you got a speck of respect in these bones after all, huh? Such a pretty ass you got. I have a good mind to just lick you open all nice and wet and leave you here, rock hard, while I touch myself and come all over you. Bet you'd like that too, you needy little shit.' He grabs the tie again and Hamilton twists his head around, opens his mouth as if to say something, a protest -

'One word and I'm trussing you up like a chicken and leaving you here. Naked. Humiliated. You won't even get to touch yourself.'

Hamilton's dark eyes harden.

'Be a good boy for me,' Thomas says, and stuffs the tie into Hamilton's mouth. 

He slides in slowly. It's tortruous, but after a while it gets gratifying how choked noises arise from Hamilton's throat, how his fingers claw at the cushions. Hamilton's body shakes, and he clenches around Thomas at first, which is part of the delicious struggle between pain and pleasure.

'Loosen up, sweetheart,' He says, in a voice so gentle he doesn't recognise it, 'Just for me, there's a good boy. I don't wanna hurt you, Alex.'

Hamilton's hands reach back, and then he's parting his ass cheeks for Thomas, trembling with every bit of his being, but he's invested in the act, every wave of emotion that hits them both. They ride the wave of pleasure and pain, cocks straining for release.

Hamilton makes a keen whine through the tie when Thomas finally slides in fully, and that's all it takes.

With every thrust Hamilton shudders. He screams through the tie, fingers slipping off his own skin, slippery as they come undone. Thomas scrabbles at his back, angry red lines that match the ones on his, and pushes in a little deeper, thrusts a little harder, trying to get at the reactions he wants only a little more. 

Hamilton's rutting into the couch and it shouldn't be this hot but it is: Thomas waits only a split second in between thrusts, rough, hard, fast. He's swearing and groaning all at once, cock buried inside Hamilton's pretty little hole and thighs aching as they bracket his body.

At some point the tie falls out of Hamilton's mouth and he does nothing but shriek, sobbing into the cushions as he makes grabs for his probably aching cock, but Thomas slaps his hands away and pinches the inside of Hamilton's thighs, forces him to fall back and just take it.

'Sir,' He cries, between thrusts,  _'sir, sir, please -'_

'So good for me. Come on, Alex, come on.'

'Sir -  _oh, I can't -'_

Hamilton moans, tightening around Thomas's dick, and Thomas cries out, his vision whitening out as orgasm rips through him. 

He pulls out, sweaty and wrecked, and Hamilton lies on his stomach, crying softly. Come glistens down his thighs, over his back. Thomas feels his dick ache as he looks at it.

'C'mere,' He says, turning Hamilton over carefully. The smaller man whines, twists in his arms, his cock jumping, but Thomas traps it between their bodies, rocks Hamilton slowly on his lap. 'Look at you. Look at you, darlin'. So gorgeous for me, so good.'

Hamilton sobs, chest heaving, and Thomas slips onto his knees so fast he might have gotten rugburn.

'Do you want me to get you off, sweetheart? You'd like that, wouldn't you? Me sucking your dick. Get you nice and wet for me, let you fuck my mouth.' He swipes at his lips with the back of his hand to prove a point, and Hamilton swallows, puts his hands on either side of his body to balance his weight.

'How do I know - you're not just fucking around?'

Thomas looks up at him. He can see Hamilton's dark eyes, tired and perhaps a little scared, and the wet patch on the ugly tie falling against his right nipple. He puts a hand on Hamilton's thigh - earning a delicious shudder - and kisses the inside of it, slowly, gently. A soft trail of kisses that make Hamilton tremble, lips falling apart so slightly.

'Thomas -'

'Hush,' Thomas says, and takes Hamilton's cock into his mouth.

 

* * *

 

He uses his tongue, mostly. Licking and swirling up and down the shaft, smacking his lips when he pulls away with the most obscene noises. He cups Hamilton's balls in one hand: the man jerks, whining and squirming as Thomas's other hand roams about his body.

'Oh,' He cries out when Thomas slips his fingers into his hole, still dripping from his release. 'Oh, I -'

Thomas finds his prostate quickly. Hamilton's screaming, now, slipping back and forth between dialects and voice breaking on every time he says Thomas's name; his toes curl and Thomas would be lying if he said he wasn't the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

A hard thrust of his fingers; Thomas swallows around Hamilton's dick, and with a shout he shoots down his throat, voice raw and bleeding with pent up sexual frustration.

Thomas licks his lips.

He feels numb. His head is spinning. He just got down onto his knees and sucked Alexander Hamilton's dick, and he doesn't hate himself for it. 

(His mind is here. His body is here. His mind is at peace with his body, and his body is telling him to kiss Alexander Hamilton and not stop till they're both breathless and sweaty and sticky and disgusting and still keep on kissing him.)

Hamilton looks at him with large eyes. His chest rises and falls erratically, like he's just run a marathon. There are tear stains on his face and angry looking marks all down the length of his body. 

'Hey,' He says.

'Hey.'

Thomas sinks down next to him, and if he reaches for Hamilton and pulls him close, breathes in the scent of sex and shampoo and what he thinks just might be balm in Gilead yet, none of them react to it. Hamilton's heavy breathing turns into soft snores, and while it takes Thomas a little longer to fall asleep, he does with a sort of peace he hasn't found in a long time.

 

* * *

 

When Thomas wakes up, Hamilton is not pressed to him on the couch, breathing in sync and on his face an imprint of where he slept on his side to Thomas, curled like a human comforter around the larger man. This does not worry Thomas. Not a bit.

Because Hamilton is, instead, sitting on a nearby armchair with a mug of what smells like coffee, dark eyes bleary with sleep and hair like branches of a wild tree, rumpled and sticking up and

And it shouldn't be adorable but it is.

Thomas stands, wincing, and makes his way over. Hamilton's eyes catch his. Hold. 

'Good morning.'

'Morning.'

There's a pause. 

(Maybe this will turn out like the kiss. Maybe we'll go back to not speaking and our separate lives, and maybe I'll go get drunk off my face in some bar and sleep with some person I don't want and maybe you'll realise there are better people than someone who actively loathes you out there.)

'Thomas,' Hamilton says, staring at the mug as steam wafts from it, 'I don't think I - I don't think I was very clear with what I wanted, last time.'

'Yeah. No, yeah, you weren't.'

Thomas can feel something breaking inside of him. He pushes it away. Buries it deep. Of course this is just another mistake. Of course Hamilton would want nothing to do with him. Anxiety claws at his chest, tightens its talons around his neck.

(He realises, belatedly, that Hamilton's wearing Thomas's clothes again.)

'Sorry, my shirt's wrecked and -'

'It's fine.' Thomas reaches out before he can help it, smooths out the creases in the old shirt, snug around a body that actually fits it. 'You look...good. Hell knows why you dress like you're attending your own funeral all day.'

Hamilton's brow furrows.

'I don't - you're terrible. Fuck you, at least I don't dress like a peacock.'

'I'm going to take that,' Thomas says, and he's already smiling, 'As a compliment.'

Hamilton looks at him. Thomas wants to kiss him. Thomas wants to

(hate him. He's always wanted to hate him. Wants to tear him down and knock him over and destroy the myth that is Alexander Hamilton, invulnerable and stable and)

'I want to kiss you,' He says.

Silence. Thomas can't fucking stand silence.

Then Hamilton sets his mug aside and steps in closer, jaw tightening as he lifts his nose to brush Thomas's.

'Do it, then.'

His voice is shaky.

'Are you going to leave, after I do?' Thomas doesn't recognise his own voice. Maybe it's shattered, too. He grabs Hamilton's coffee with a ferocity that scares himself and it hits him hard. Black. Strong, bitter. Hamilton's eyes follow him. 'Because if so I'm not gonn' touch you at all.'

'You don't give a flying fuck about me. So why do you care?'

(Broken glass. Broken ribs. Same thing. Holding or used to hold something ticking.)

Thomas stares at him, this man, small and vulnerable and his destruction. His lip curls, and he can't stop it from happening: he's already regretting what he'll say before it leaves his mouth.

'I don't,' He says, short and sharp and curt

(stuttering out of someone's lungs something bright and beautiful)

and the handle breaks in his hands. The mug falls to the ground, shatters: the pieces skid over the floor. 'Leave, Hamilton.'

'Did I do something wrong?'

'Leave.'

'Thomas -'

'Stop fucking calling me that,' He snaps, staring at the broken mug. His mind floats into oblivion. Loathing burns in his chest. 'You're not my friend, Hamilton. I'm not going to start wanting to hang out with you and your stupid problems and your stupid friends because we fucked, once.'

'And maybe I want that, okay?' Hamilton grabs his arm, and Thomas's eyes flick upwards, surprise catching in his throat.

'I told you to -'

'You took care of me,' Hamilton says, soft and gentle and God Thomas hates that he can be so soft and gentle when only hours ago he was screaming into the cushions for Thomas to keep going, harder, harder, calling him sir and getting him off. 'When John - when Laurens died. I don't think I could've buried him without you. You know what it was like staring his father in the face?'

'I've met Henry Laurens.'

'Not like me you haven't. John hated him. John threw away his career and education just to be free from that...all that oppressiveness and everything. He found me. We loved each other.'

Hamilton's hand drops back to his side. 

'I'm not your therapist, Hamilton.' Thomas runs his hands through his hair, trying to think. His head hurts. 'And I'm a pretty shit listener. I don't know what your relationship with Laurens was. I don't care. It's not my business.'

'I like you.'

(You don't. You hate me. I hate you. We're a dynamic people roll eyes at. People bicker over who to invite to which function because they can't have two natural disasters at once. We're nothing. We're two matches burning each other out. We're bad. We're toxic. You don't like me. You couldn't.)

'I didn't hold onto Laurens.' Hamilton's eyes are distant. Thomas recognises the look in them all too well. 'And I know I could've. He wouldn't need to drink, and I could've helped him through everything his dad said.'

'What does that have to do with me?'

(young girls spinning, grinning. feet up in the air and skirts swishing. lipstick on foreheads and the smudge of mascara on cheekbones sharp and glistening with toner.)

'I said I like you.' His jaw is set. His lower lip sticks out, almost a pout but not quite, almost shaking. But not quite. He almost looks like he's going to come forward and kiss Thomas. But not quite.

(Thomas finds he hates the word almost.)

'I didn't tell John that. It's one of my deepest regrets.'

 

* * *

 

'I'm not John,' Thomas says. The words are numb on his tongue. 'I'm not some guy you can run back to when your wife doesn't want you. Ex wife. I'm not some guy you can drag out to your shitty fucking clubs and tell your life stories to. I don't give a fuck about you, Hamilton.'

'Then why fuck me? Why humiliate me like that?' 

Hamilton steps over the broken glass. Somehow Thomas doubts he would've felt a thing if he'd trodden on it. 

'You said it yourself. You hate me. I hate you. I loathe you. That means you give a fuck. You want to use me, be used, humiliate me? Be my guest. Hurt me, Thomas. I want you to hurt me.'

Thomas stares at him.

(There is so much nothing in his chest it hurts. It feels like it's expanding. A paradox of himself. A black hole, a naked singularity.)

'No,' He says.

Hamilton sags. Like a balloon that's been pricked.

'I don't want to hurt you,' Thomas says. His hands knit themselves into the front of Hamilton's shirt - his shirt, really - and he holds them there, bunching up soft fabric and passing over warm skin. 'I want to help you, you stupid motherfucker. I'll tie you up and fuck you, call you names and use your pretty ass if you'd like -' Hamilton's body shudders '- but I'm not going to hurt you.'

'You mean that?'

Soft. Warm. Thomas moves his hands into Hamilton's hair, brushing it out of the smaller man's face. Marvelling, perhaps, at every inch of stolen skin he feels on the way. 

(I want to hate you. And I do.)

He kisses Hamilton's forehead, too warm and too human, and that, he supposes - or hopes - is answer enough.

 

* * *

 

'Thomas,' Lafayette says. He pulls out of the hug and kisses him lightly on both cheeks, eyes twinkling merrily. His flyaway hair is up in a ponytail that flounces as he walks, as if it's threatening to float off into space. 'Mon cheri, what a pleasure you finally made it.'

'You know I love your dances, Laf.'

Thomas smiles, albeit wearily, and submits to Lafayette's kisses even after the customary greeting is over: Gilbert is affectionate that way, like a puppy slopping all over himself.

'I'm glad.' Lafayette finally decides he's kissed Thomas enough - hell, even Thomas's fiercest makeout sessions is nothing to half a minute with Gil - and pulls away, grinning. 'That you finally made it, I mean. I put on some jazz, Monsieur Madison claims you are fond of it.'

Thomas can't help the smile that breaks over his face. Lafayette's enthusiasm is catching.

'I am.'

He's already catching the eye of some dainty young thing, catching a child by his waist and twirling him around with her as her dress swishes, a spray of floral print. She smiles at Thomas before she looks past him, extending one pale arm to Lafayette.

'A dance, Monsieur. I insist.'

'You know I am the clumsiest dancer, Mademoiselle,' Gil grins, but he takes her hand anyway. 'Marie, this is the good little Southern boy I told you about. Have fun, Thomas. I will see you later.'

Thomas's eyebrow soars, and he watches the blonde woman laugh as Lafayette trips over his own feet. 

'Mister Jefferson?'

'Mister Washington.' Thomas makes a hasty grab for the outstretched hand, and George Washington smiles, the epitome of a good, holy man. Everything Thomas isn't. He thinks of Hamilton, calling him "sir", and has to stifle a dark chuckle. 'I didn't think parties were your scene, forgive me...sir.'

'Lafayette insisted that I come. That they'd not be speaking much French, mine is terribly...limited. I'd say.' George's eyes dart to where mentioned Frenchman is stumbling over the blonde woman's complicated step sequence, and Thomas follows his gaze. 'Hamilton tells me he's currently staying with you, if memory serves me correct.'

'Yes. He is.'

Thomas studies George's face intently. There is something like a fatherly sort of protectiveness there, and the thought does not sit well in his stomach.

'I was wondering if you could convince him to come back to work. There are several clients who have come back asking him to help represent them again. They won't have anyone else, you see. Hamilton is...an eccentric sort of lawyer, but his clients love him.'

'I'm honoured you think I could change his mind,' Thomas says, the smile frozen on his face, 'But Hamilton is a force of his own reckoning. If he doesn't want to go back, he won't.'

'I thought you'd hold a sort of leverage over him. Seeing as how he did go to you about Laurens before anyone else.'

Thomas grimaces before he can help it. How can he help it?

(night dark flavour of the sky none hamilton on the couch head in hands elbows on thighs body shaking shoulders sloping rolling downwards body shaking body shaken)

'A funny story, that.' He wants a vodka. (This early in the evening? James would say, but he's not here. He's in the corner, twirling Dolley around.)

'I'm sure. Well, if you do happen to change your mind - and his, as a result - tell him to give me a call. I worry about him, you know.' Washington's eyes are still on Lafayette. Thomas wonders how long it'll take before Gilbert can pin this one down, another notch in his impressive bedpost. If he has already. 'Please? Mister Jefferson?'

Thomas catches his sigh in time, and sticks out a hand in solidarity.

'Shake on it.'

 

* * *

 

He's halfway into his living room when Hamilton grabs him by the tie.

'What the fuck did you say to Washington,' The smaller man says, hands up against Thomas's chest and shoving: he hits the wall hard and Hamilton attacks his lips with a sort of ferocity that is all consuming. Thomas kisses back, of course, all angry lines and hands sliding under a familiar Yale hoodie, raking over sensitive skin. 'He - oh,  _fuck -'_ Thomas brushes over a nipple ' - hnn, he called, said he t- _talked_ _to you -'_

'I liked you better when you had a tie in your mouth.'

Thomas nips at Hamilton's lower lip and the latter shudders, involuntary, sensitive.

'C'mere,' Thomas breathes into Hamilton's ear, fingers tugging him closer, hooked into the waistband of jeans too big for him. They stumble, between kisses and thinly veiled threats, into his bedroom. 'Down, boy.'

'Fuck you.'

'Bet you'd like to.' Thomas winks and loosens his tie, slipping it over his head. His hands don't shake: he danced all the nervous energy out of him at the party. Right now, every muscle in his body quivers with control. 'But that's not quite what I had in mind for tonight, darlin'. Be a dear and get on the bed for me.' 

Hamilton obediently flops over, eyes glittering with a certain menace that makes Thomas wonder if he should've asked him to stay as he fucked him over the kitchen counter instead. 

'Where'd you go?' He asks, and Thomas freezes as he undoes his cufflinks. 'Your hair is a mess.'

'Missed me, huh?' 

Thomas eyes Hamilton, all dark eyes and swollen, bitten lips, and bends down to kiss him. This time it's gentle. Almost kind. His fingers card through Hamilton's hair, and the smaller man just sits there and takes it. 

'Maybe I did,' Hamilton says, voice hoarse. 

'Maybe I can make it up to you, sweetheart.' 

He yanks Hamilton closer. A yelp, and Hamilton catches on, straddling his lap and looking down at him - for once, Thomas entertains - with twinkling eyes. His cheeks are flushed.

'Welcome back, sir.'

'We're doing this, are we?' Thomas lets a moment pass. Two. Hamilton's eyes drop to his lap, seemingly embarrassed. 'Darling. Look at me.'

'Don't fucking call me that.'

Thomas pinches him, hard, and Hamilton growls, body snapping forward and arching. 'Manners,' Thomas says, tilting his face upwards so he can press a kiss to the frown-wrinkles on Hamilton's forehead. 'I wonder how you haven't scandalised the Court already with that mouth.'

'You like my mouth.' 

'I do,' He's forced to acquiesce. 'Do you want me to make you use it? You have to be more responsive, sweetheart, give me somethin' to work with here.'

Hamilton shivers as Thomas's hands find his ass, bunching up the layers of loose denim and kneading.

'- want you to fuck me, sir.' Hamilton's voice is trembling. Thomas wants to kiss him till he gasps, lick him open and just take him till he's screaming, but he doesn't. He smirks, instead.

'I should think you could do a little better than that, hmm?' 

'I want you to take me, sir.' Hamilton's tongue darts, furtive, from tooth to tooth. 'Hurt me. Use me. Pin me down, tie me up, make me scream. Want you to open me up for you and fuck me, sir, want you to come in me. Want to take your cock, sir, I -'

Thomas bites back a groan and presses his lips together, trying to stop all the blood from rushing to his dick too fast.

'You want to, sir,' Hamilton presses, grinding down onto Thomas's hardness. 'You want to take me. I'd suck your dick, sir, let you fuck my mouth and make a mess out of me, p-please, I need you, sir.'

'You're good at this,' Thomas says, fingers digging into Hamilton's ass through his jeans. 'Strip for me, Alex. Nothing elaborate, just want you naked.'

Hamilton's throat bobs at the nickname, a quick swallow of nerves. He pushes himself off of Thomas - a hand on his cock, trapped in his jeans - and shimmies out of the hoodie as best as he can, already undoing his trousers in the process.

'Sweet Jesus, look at you. Such a needy whore, huh? Bet you'd love it if I just took you like this, dressed. Try to get at my come through my trousers with your pretty little mouth.'

Hamilton whines at the words, briefs falling to his ankles.

'C'mere, darling. Let me look atcha.'

He kisses Hamilton when he can reach for him, pulling him close and licking into his open mouth. Filthy, sweet and something like hate, but kinder. Fiercer. 

'Fuck,' Hamilton murmurs into his mouth.

'I want you, darling. Anyway you can take me. One day I'll let you jerk me off and come all over your pretty little chest so you can clean yourself up after.' Hamilton shudders at the suggestion, aroused, but Thomas holds him firm. 'Right now I want you on your back, hands on the headboard. Don't want you to move, sweetheart.'

(He hates this. He hates how easy it is to say things like this, call Hamilton things like that. He hates how Hamilton gives in, wants to be here; he hates how his chest feels heavy and he wants to kiss Hamilton and kiss Hamilton and just keep kissing Hamilton.)

Hamilton's trembling as he puts his hands on the headboard. His fingers slip, shaking; he's biting hard on his lower lip. Thomas kisses him.

'If you need to stop -'

'Fuck you,' Hamilton snaps, 'D-don't you even fucking dare think of stopping.'

(It aches. It aches.)

Thomas smiles and reaches for a condom and a packet of lube. They weren't being careful last time: he's not going to repeat the same mistake. Granted he got his own bloodwork done, but he can't be too sure about Hamilton.

(He cheated on his wife. He strung Laurens around. how can they love him? how can they)

'Hold your legs apart for me. No hands.'

'What, no please?' Hamilton's grin melts into a whine when Thomas lays a palm on the inside of his thigh, right below where his cock is.

'Be a good boy for me, Alex.'

Hamilton almost cries out the response.

'I don't want you to take your hands off the headboard, sweetheart. Will that be a problem?' 

'N-no.'

'No?' Thomas curls his fingers where his hand still is, warm against Hamilton's trembling thigh, and the latter struggles to breathe for a moment. His cheeks are flushed.

'No, sir.'

'And if you need to stop, you'll tell me.'

Hamilton opens his mouth, brow already creasing, but Thomas leans over and kisses where the wrinkles form, and he falls silent. 'You'll tell me,' He murmurs into Hamilton's mouth, open and warm and almost kind. 'Cos I don't want to hurt you, Alex. C'mon.'

Hamilton's eyes soften. He nods, curt, and Thomas presses another kiss to the side of his mouth before pulling away.

(He's thinking about what Hamilton would look like on a dance floor. A steady swing dance with all its twirls and spins and every step sequence. Thinking of Hamilton's ponytail flaring as he spins, catching Thomas's hand like it's the only thing anchoring him to earth.)

And God knows Thomas needs an anchor.

He undresses. Hamilton's eyes rake down his body as he does, hungry, drinking the sight of him in. Thomas has never felt quite so powerful, quite as revered. He swallows and focuses on a crack in the wall as he unbuttons his Oxford, the buttons seeming to slip from his fingers.

'Thomas,' Hamilton says when he touches his dress pants, tailored to hug his ass just right and yet allow for maximum comfort when he moves. His voice is almost nothing above a hoarse whisper.

'Hmm?'

A moment passes. Two. Hamilton kisses his teeth, throat bobbing in a very delectable sort of way, and then shakes his head.

(Nothing.)

'Hey.'

Thomas takes his hands away. He straddles Hamilton, hands cupping either side of the smaller man's face in a way that screams too intimate, too much at once. An impulse seizes him. He drags his thumb over Hamilton's chin, grizzly stubble and smooth, flushed out skin. 

'What are you -'

'I don't know.' Thomas's voice catches, grating terribly in the air like a dull knife. He realises he's crying. Hamilton makes a small noise in the back of his throat and makes as if to sit up, but Thomas pushes him back down. 'No. Don't -'

(Why is he backing out now? Why is he overcome by all these emotions only now, like someone was banging on the floodgates so hard they came open and with them a torrent of pent up...everything?)

'Thomas,' Hamilton says. 'Sir.'

Thomas swallows.

'I can take it. Please, sir, I need -' And here he breaks away, delicious tongue darting out as if to swipe away a passing knot of nerves forming on Hamilton's upper lip. 'I need you to fuck me, please.'

'Jesus. Okay. Okay, sweetheart.'

There is plenty room for conflict. At least inside Thomas, as he pushes Hamilton's legs apart and slicks him up, the man's head falling back when he pushes two fingers inside his tight little hole. You'd think for someone with so many amorous connections he'd learn to unclench a little, but perhaps that was the beauty of it. Thomas can feel his hands stutter as he pushes and swirls, his breath come out short and sharp as Hamilton moans.

He can see Hamilton's hands on the headboard. His fingers are trembling, the urge to touch his aching cock in evident becoming overbearing. 

(Thomas knows he does not have to ask. Hamilton will know his hard limits.)

Another finger. It's so hot, the way Hamilton moves. One day Thomas will get him off just by fingering him, slow and steady and gentle till the man comes, over and over, at a pace that will leave him sore and aching and wonderfully sensitive for hours.

(One day. Thomas thinks that somehow, there will be another time. Another day. That the future is a promise. That the past is erasable, a black marker on a whiteboard.)

oh, hamilton whines, a slow, inquisitive sound, and thomas swallows.

'Fuck, fuck, s-sir,  _oh, please -'_

'Patience is a virtue, darlin'.' Thomas pulls his fingers out, tracing the pink, sensitive little hole, and Hamilton's sounds are positively filthy. 'So pretty like this.' His voice catches again, but he surges on, more anger than anything else. 'So pretty for me. Alex.'

'G-God,' Hamilton gasps, back arching. His knees are trembling as he struggles to hold them apart: Thomas imagines them painted with come. 

'Not quite. Close.'

'You're just fucking Satan -  _oh, fuck, sir, please,'_ Hamilton can't even speak how he's choking on the words as Thomas slips his fingers in again, without warning, thrusting them in harder and faster. _'No more teasing,_ _p -'_

He thrashes, words turning into full on whining, and then he seizes up. Come streaks the insides of his thighs, Thomas's bare chest, his own chest.

'There, baby.'

'You haven't - c-come, yet.' Hamilton's eyes are closed. He's breathing, fast, hard, and Thomas looks at the white streaks on his chest, scoops it up with his fingers.

'You gonn' do something about that, darlin'?'

Hamilton opens his mouth when Thomas touches his fingers to his lips, licking at the come meticulously. He sits and licks, making the most obscene sounds with his tongue as he does, until Thomas has scooped most of the semen off his chest. 

'Wanna ride you,' He says, almost shy. 'If you'd - if you'd let me. Sir.'

'You're a little fucking shit, you know that?'

Thomas leans in before he can help it. Hamilton has the audacity to look surprised, as if he hadn't expecting Thomas would kiss him after such a vehement remark. He blinks, affronted, then goes pliant and soft under Thomas's lips.

(It shouldn't feel this good. Thomas should hate this. Thomas should hate him.)

thomas hates him. thomas hates alexander hamilton.

'Hey,' He says, and Hamilton kisses into his mouth, the sides of it, peppering kisses around his face as best as he can with his hands confined to the headboard. 

'Hey.'

He nips at the exposed skin when Hamilton tilts his head backwards, a long neck and bobbing Adam's Apple. Sucks and bites till he's sure he'll leave love marks, bruises. He wants to mark Hamilton up, make sure everyone knows.

(Knows what?)

'You taste so good,' Thomas says, dragging his teeth gently over Hamilton's skin. He tastes salt, the light sheen of sweat on Hamilton's body. Fine hairs. 

Hamilton shivers. 

Thomas drinks it in: every inch of him. Under his teeth, tongue, soft skin and flesh and bone. Blood, if he bit hard enough, but he does not. He bruises, but not excessively. He runs fingers up and down Hamilton's body, touching, taking. 

'F-fuck.'

'Like this,' Thomas says, into the curve of Hamilton's shoulder. He pulls away, a soft purple blossoming over the area. 'You like this.'

Hamilton's pupils are full blown.

'You said something about wanting to ride me?' He can feel Hamilton getting hard again. He smooths his hands over Hamilton's abdomen, runs them over the fine line of hair on his stomach leading down to his cock. Another tremble.

(Hamilton's body is an instrument so finely tuned, every shiver is music.)

'If you'd let me move my hands -'

'Mm,' Thomas says, nuzzling into his open mouth. 'Go 'head, darling.'

And then Hamilton is a blur of activity.

 

* * *

 

He wrestles Thomas down and grabs at him, messy and fierce and so hot it hurts. Fistfuls of hair and hungry, biting kisses.Thomas yowls as his curls are yanked at. Hamilton's fingers trace his jawline adoringly as he sits atop Thomas's chest, the very picture of cheekiness.

'Hey,' He says, leaning down to peck Thomas on the cheek.

'Real funny.'

(Thomas can feel his heartbeat in his ears, it's that damn loud. He wants to hate this. Hell, he should. He should hate this so much.)

'You already opened me up real good, sir,' Hamilton murmurs, grinding down onto Thomas's hardness. (God, he must really have a kink for being dressed during sex, because his trousers should have been off ages ago.) Thomas bites back a moan. 'I've been s-so good for you, please...'

'Tell me what you want, sweetheart.'

'Wanna ride you.' Hamilton flushes up to his fucking ears, Sweet Jesus, and it's the hottest thing Thomas has ever seen. 'Wanna take your cock so bad, sir, please, 'll be so good -'

'Undress me.' 

Hamilton swallows.

Slowly, deliberately, he clambers off of Thomas, dropping his hands to the latter's waist. Thomas's breath hitches when Hamilton starts undoing his dress pants. His cock fucking aches by this point, neglected for so long. As if Hamilton can tell, the cheeky little bugger, he undoes the zipper as painfully slowly as even possible, pausing to even look at Thomas before pulling the trousers down to his ankles.

'I'm going to fucking choke you.'

'I'd like that,' Hamilton replies, which makes Thomas choke, a little. 'Not tonight? I really want to -'

'I know, sweetheart. You gonna finish the job?' Thomas gestures at his cock, straining in his boxers yet, and Hamilton grins. 

They come off, somehow, and Thomas slides the condom on, pats his lap in a way he hopes isn't too silly. Hamilton only wiggles his eyebrows - my God, but he's fucking irritating when he's not being fucked - and plops himself on it, legs bracketing Thomas's waist.

'I like your lap,' He says. 'Wonder if I could hop on it in the courtroom, make you forget your opening statement.'

Thomas sputters, pinches Hamilton's thigh, and the man jumps, breath stuttering in his throat.

'You'd like that, wouldn't you? But then I could just take you like that, too. Fuck you over one of the desks so the entire court could see what a fucking cockslut their prized lawyer is.'

Hamilton's body trembles, and he licks his lips. 'Tho - sir, I really want to - right now, please.'

Thomas considers teasing him, getting him worked up and panting and begging for it. Then he decides against it. Hamilton's been so good for him. At least thus far. He nods, and Hamilton's throat bobs.

'Fuck,' He says as he begins sinking down on Thomas's cock. 'F-fuck, _oh, Th-Thomas -'_

Thomas growls, eyes scrunching up, and Hamilton takes another inch. He clenches up, and fuck if it isn't mindblowing. Thomas's dick is responding more than the rest of him is: he's throwing his head back, flushed, Hamilton's little mewling sounds white noise by now but still as hot.

'God, Hamilton, you're just so -  _fuck, right there, like that, baby - oh,'_ Thomas squeezes his eyes shut, panting. He rocks his hips upwards, and Hamilton grunts, mouth opening and closing like he's out of breath. He can't speak. He can't fucking think.

(A frenzy of movement. Colour. Light. Lafayette tripping over Marie Antoinette's feet. Madison spinning Dolley round and round. Laughter and music and dance.)

Hamilton's fingers dig into his shoulders. His nails, clear moons, rake across sensitive skin, and Thomas moans, leaning into the touch. 

He swipes his mouth over Hamilton's neck and catches the beads of sweat making their way down into the lovely little hollow between his collar bones, lets them sit on his tongue. Hamilton groans, too blissed out to do anything other than rock on Thomas's dick, practically buried inside his perfect little ass. His lips move, swollen, but no sound escapes save for the occasional broken whimper.

Thomas is so close. He feels it building in him, the momentum, so hard it hurts. His brain blanks, fizzes: if he closes his eyes sparks appear on the insides of his eyelids.

Then Hamilton shudders and comes, and his body responses by tightening up so much that Thomas gasps. It splatters against his chest, again, and he responds in kind: he squeezes his eyes shut, silent, and blows his load with Hamilton's name dying on his lips.

He drifts, for a while. It's only when Hamilton starts making small noises of discomfort that he begins easing out, carefully, and Hamilton's crying when he's done, little choked sobs that die when he buries his head in Thomas's chest.

'You did so good for me, baby,' Thomas soothes, pressing soft kisses to Hamilton's nest of hair. 'It's okay, it's okay, sweetheart. S'over.'

Hamilton sniffs and breathes, heartbeat steady against Thomas's rabbiting ribcage, and Thomas kisses him and kisses him until his lips are tingling. He doesn't remember falling asleep. He doesn't.

 

* * *

 

Hamilton, in the morning, tastes like black coffee and lemon biscuits. There's sugar on his lower lip, which Thomas nibbles at absently before he grabs the smaller man by his fantastic ass and they spend fifteen minutes just kissing and touching.

(His chest aches. Behind his eyes, something aches.)

'How did you even wake up early enough to bake, you fuck,' Thomas says, his voice coming out hoarse. 

Hamilton mumbles a response into his mouth.

'Wanna tell me what Washington wanted?'

Thomas freezes. Then he smiles, rubbing his bare cheek against Hamilton's stubble. It grates in a strangely pleasant way.

'He told me to ask you to come back to work.'

'What did you say?' Hamilton's voice is quiet. He leans into Thomas's touch, plays with his fingers, grazing the knuckles softly. Thomas kisses him. He tastes bitter and sweet, all at once. 

'That I couldn't change your mind if I wanted to. That you make your own decisions.' 

'They're not always the best ones.'

Thomas's gaze snaps upwards, but Hamilton only smiles, a little sad. 

'Cheating on Eliza - that was a terrible thing to do. I know that. I was an idiot. I'm not -' He stops, breath hitching in his throat, and then he looks away. 'I'm not ever going to justify that. God knows I tried to.'

'Okay.'

His ear aches.

'Thomas,' Hamilton says. Each word measured. Dancing on the edge of a knife. 'Do you want me to go back to work?'

'I thought you loved your work.'

'I do. Admittedly more so than...is probably healthy. But it's not - it's not what I want to do. Not really, in the sense of wanting itself.' Hamilton's lip and upper row of teeth meet again. Thomas wants to kiss them. He does. 'I mean. People tell me, I'm a great lawyer. My clients love me. Or they don't. My opponents hate me. I've won countless cases and lost several and still every time feels different.'

Thomas pulls away to stare at him. His dark eyes are deep, pools of black. 

'The truth is I'm dying. I don't want to see the same faces like this for the rest of my days. I don't want to say the same things and get contempt complaints for the same things and hate the same Judges because they've got the same sticks up their fucking asses.'

'You're what?' Thomas grabs Hamilton by the waist, but the smaller man just waves him away. 'Hamilton, you're dying? What the fuck does that mean?'

'I'm dying. Everyone's dying. I'm thirty four and I don't know if I'll live till tomorrow, so yeah, I'm dying. Our cells are decomposing at an alarming rate. Our population is swelling. We're all fucking dying, and I don't want to spend the rest of my death on this planet putting on the same fucking suits and giving the same fucking arguments and meeting the same people.' 

'You fuck.'

'Fuck's a satisfying sort of word.' Hamilton's eyes flash. 'No matter what I do there'll be someone better than me. There are better lawyers. Better writers.'

'So you're just going to sit somewhere and chew on your fingers as some child genius outplays Mozart and rot? That doesn't sound like you.' Thomas leans forward, trying to make sense of this whole situation. 'So you don't want to be in law, anymore. That's fine. Understandable. But according to your logic there's no point in doing anything unless you're the best at it.'

'No, I'm just saying this mindless pursuit of perfection humanity seems to be on is stupid. Senseless. And being part of this broken system of law and supposed justice reminds me of that everyday.'

Hamilton's fingers drum on Thomas's jawline. He realises this is what intimacy feels like. Without fear. As it's supposed to be.

(It's like offering water to a thirsty man and watching his eyes widen into the pools he needs most as he stares at the silt gathering in the bottom of the cup.)

'So you're not going back.'

'I don't know,' Hamilton admits. He looks sad, now, and Thomas wants to hold him. 

'You don't have to make the decision immediately.'

'You think I rush into things, don't you?'

Thomas blinks, but Hamilton's already barrelling on.

'I mean. Why are you a lawyer, Thomas? Good little Southern boy from Monticello. Bet you planned your whole life ahead of you in university. Took an extended trip to France, saw the sights, fucked some people. Then back to New York, this hub of crime and activity, to practise law. I can't understand it. I can't understand you.'

'Do you want to?' Thomas traces the lines of Hamilton's face with a gentle finger. Angry, even. Angry lines. Tired lines. Frustrated.

'Is that an offer for something? Because if you're jerking me around again, I'll drink myself under another table, probably.' Hamilton's voice is angry. He is angry. He is anger personified. Thomas loves that anger. 'Please. If you're telling me to leave again, I'll do it. I won't come back. I swear to God I -' and he looks away, voice sharp. The edge of a blade. 

Thomas realises his fingers are shaking.

'Don't leave.'

'Fuck. Thomas, I can't - I'm not the type of person you take home to see your parents. God knows I tried to be. I fucking tried. And I'm a terrible lover, I - fuck. Thomas. Fuck.'

He buries his head in his hands.

Thomas struggles to breathe.

'Look. I dunno what you promised your wife, or Laurens. But...I'm not asking for anythin'.' Thomas needs this. He needs it like water. A thirsty man, looking into the cup. 'Just stay. Please. Move in with me. You can see other people if you'd like, this doesn't have to be a commitment, but -'

Hamilton's eyes are shining. He's crying.

'I fucking hate you, you fuck,' He says, and somehow, Thomas understands.

 

* * *

 

The club is dim, but not dark in the creepy way. Thomas can make out faces. A Muslim girl in the corner, what looks like a script bunched up in her nervous hands and dark eyes shining at whoever passes her by. Two bald men conversing over scotches in a tone so hushed he can pick up nothing at all. 

'You don't have to stay,' Hamilton whispers, but his hand is cold in Thomas's. Nerves.

'Don't be ridiculous.'

'You just got off the case. Judge Vasquez is a mean fucker, you should take some time off on your own.' Hamilton squeezes his fingers, and Thomas frowns. 'Madison left a voicemail, asking you to some dance thing. I didn't know you danced.'

Thomas's chest feels light.

'Occasionally. Come with, later?'

Hamilton's lips hook up into a small smile. 'Are you sure you don't want to go?'

'You're eager to get me gone, huh?'

Thomas squints at him. Hamilton's hair is dragged back into a messy ponytail, and he's got a pair of round glasses on that make him look adorable. His olive skin almost glows in the yellow light. His fingers are picking at the buttons of his Oxford, a nice button-down Thomas made him get after he discovered Hamilton had barely anything other than ratty, stupid looking T shirts and khakis and his work clothes in his wardrobe. (He burned the suit from China. It had to be done.)

'I just - I don't know. Fuck. I shouldn't have come.'

'Fucker, you're not going.' Thomas grabs him by the shoulder. He doesn't even tense. There was a time where he might have, where he might have even pushed Thomas away.

'Thomas,' dies on his lips when said man bodily shoves him forward, onto the small stage with the microphone stand neglected on it.

Everyone looks up.

Thomas feels his heart pick up pace. What did he do; Hamilton's gonna hate him, he fucked up. He swallows and steps back, but then Hamilton's fingers curl around the base of the mike.

'I'm Alexander Hamilton. Most of you don't know me, yet.'

'Just you wait,' Thomas mutters.

Hamilton fixates his eyes on him, a glare reflecting off his glasses like he can hear Thomas from where he is. 'I'm here to present my thoughts,' He says, and somehow, Thomas stays. He stays and he stays and his mind doesn't even think of drifting, not even after when the smattering of applause has died - the Muslim girl has burst into tears and gone forward to say something to him - and Hamilton's staring straight at him.

'How did I do?' He asks, as soon as he reaches Thomas.

Thomas only kisses him, and he smiles and smiles and smiles till his jaw aches. He doesn't think he's ever felt this content.

 

* * *

 

Hamilton's arm is tucked into his, and his cheek is pressed to the window of the taxi as the traffic rolls by. His glasses are smushed against his nose in a way that will leave imprints. Thomas studies the back of his head, the strands of loose hair and how the ponytail tumbles over tense shoulders. He cards his fingers through it and Hamilton stiffens. But only for a moment.

Skin remembers skin, after all.

'Why's Madison's place so far,' Hamilton mutters, but then he scoots up close and puts his head on Thomas's shoulder, and neither complain.

It's strangely domestic.

'If you're tired -'

'Fuck off.' Thomas winces as Hamilton pushes an elbow into his stomach. 

'Sit still, fucker.'

The cab driver is quiet. He's a chubby little Cantonese man who doesn't seem to understand much English, and his grin is missing a few admittedly nicotine-yellow teeth, but Thomas is queerly fond of him.

'Ah Chut,' He says, leaning forward in his seat, and Hamilton grumbles as his arm rest disappears. 'That is your name, right? Ah Chut. When did you come to America?'

'Yeh, yeh, Ah Chut.'

There are a few moments of silence.

Thomas repeats his question, and Hamilton lays a gentle hand on his thigh, reassuring. Ah Chut processes the query for a bit, and then deigns to respond.

'I come, some time ago. Long time.'

'That sounds familiar,' Hamilton says. Thomas crushes their fingers today and kisses him. He doesn't pull away for a while, but Ah Chut doesn't even turn around. Hamilton looks at him when they stop, starry eyed and expectant.

'This one time, I thought I hated you.'

'I do even now.' 

Hamilton smiles. Thomas cradles that smile with gentle fingers. He knows he could break it.

'I hate you, too.'

'Here?' Ah Chut's harsh vowels cut into the conversation, and Thomas glances out at the darkening sky. Madison is waiting on his porch, a shit eating grin on his face. 

'Yes, thank you.' Thomas pays Ah Chut - with a terribly heavy tip that garners an eye roll from Hamilton when he spies it - and clambers out the taxi. Madison steps forward to see them, red in the face, and his eyebrow shoots skyward when he sees Hamilton.

'Mister Madison.'

'Hamilton.' James levels his voice, stepping out and offering a smooth hand. Thomad watches Hamilton's slide into it, only a brief pump, then off and away. 'Tom, you've got to see this. Gil has got Washington on the dance floor.'

'You're kidding,' Thomas and Hamilton say in unison.

They stare at each other. Then they rush into the house.

 

* * *

 

 

There is no grand ballroom, but a spare bedroom cleared out shortly after Thomas moved out. He moves now in empty space, touching where he remembers his trinkets and furniture. In the corner, George Washington laughs as he trips over Lafayette's feet for the umpteenth time in a row. It appears there is someone more uncoordinated than Gil after all.

Burr sits on a large black cube, plucking absently at a guitar. The notes are soft, sweet, and somewhat ominous. Thomas doesn't really know what to make of them. Of him.

'Dolley went to see a friend,' James says, spreading his arms in a friendly sort of way. 'She would've come, otherwise.'

'It's fine. Just us boys, then.'

He remembers Hamilton.

(olive skin and weary eyes and lips of fire)

Said man is pressing himself against the wall, eyes fixated on Laf and Washington as they attempt a clumsy little twirl. His lips are pursed. Thomas wants to kiss them.

He unbuttons his suit jacket absently. James is crossing the room now, talking to Burr in a low tone. He can't quite make out what's being said.

'Hey.'

'Hey,' Hamilton says. There's a full moon outside, and when he turns his head it's reflected in his dark eyes. Pools of water, a thirsty man, a cup. Thomas reaches out before he can help himself.

'Dance with me?'

His fingers graze Hamilton's arm. There is so much electricity between them, it flows like liquid. The full moon in Hamilton's eyes glares. If Thomas stared hard enough, he'd make out the glimmer of starlight, too, but the light pollution in New York would make it almost impossible.

(I'm not only asking him to dance with me.)

Somehow they both understand.

Hamilton hesitates, and in that moment Thomas allows everything to come crashing down around him.

Blood roars in his ears. The room swims. He can see the blurry outline of his hand, reaching and reaching. Burr's guitar notes, languid and slow as there are thumps of mismatched steps in the corner. He thinks of

(messy kisses and bitter coffee and dying and Cantonese taxi drivers)

dancing.

'You don't have to. I mean, it's not - I'll be fine. It's no pressure, I know that -' Thomas breaks away. Everyone is looking at him. The grin begins to slip and slide from Gil's face; Washington is struggling to recollect the shreds of his composure with a very violently pink face. Burr's not looking at him. Burr never looks at him.

(Hamilton is not staring. Hamilton is looking away, out at the window with the full moon and the void of starless sky, and he looks away and looks away and away.)

'Tom,' James says, in a soft voice, and Thomas cracks.

 

* * *

 

The first time Thomas met Alexander Hamilton, he vowed to despise him.

The ugliest tropical shirt you'd ever see, straight out of a crappy rom com with the dickhead of an ex, and fucking jeans at a corporate dinner. He hadn't seemed fazed at all by all the suits crowding him in his casualwear; in fact, he'd seemed to crow at the fact.

(Thomas hated him.)

He has made love to a great number of individuals. Women and men, powerful and beautiful and for a moment, his, allowing him to seize control of one beautiful moment and ride it out to the very end.

(Hamilton is not another individual. He is a storm. He is a hurricane of anger and passion and the antithesis to everything Thomas is. Hamilton is opinions Thomas hates and an attitude he wants to bury. Hamilton is a force of his own reckoning.)

Hamilton has singlehandedly grabbed hold of the one rope Thomas could ever hope to tether himself to a shore, and yanked so hard Thomas can feel it burn.

(Thomas is burning. It's a slow sort of burn.)

 

* * *

 

There are quiet footsteps on the path. Thomas doesn't look up. He studies the ground: the beads of dew glimmering on grass blades, a shiny beetle scuttling by. His ear aches.

'Thomas.'

He doesn't look up. He doesn't look up.

(He wants to.)

An exasperated noise. Hamilton settles onto the grass next to him, and he wants to cry. He wants to run away.

'Why are you here?'

'That's my line.'

He thinks of dancing.

He thinks of

(He can't. He can't. There's a broken mirror in the dance studio. The pieces lie scattered over the floor. His ballet teacher isn't there. He tiptoes to the bars, cries out when one of the pieces gets lodged in his foot. There is blood. A sharp burst of pain.)

'Thomas -'

('Oh, mi corazón,' Casi says. He picks Thomas up, cradles him to his hip. Thomas is crying. Thomas is)

crying.

'Thomas.' Hamilton's hand bunches itself in his sleeve. Thomas looks up at the sky and thinks of sleep. Darkness. Rest. There are no stars. Only a hungry full moon that regards him as disdainfully as if he were naught but another heady mortal boy, falling in love. 'Look at me? Please.'

'I was thinking, the other day.'

Hamilton's fingers relax, curl up against warm skin under cold fabric. Thomas wants to touch them, hold them, knows he could break them.

'About me?'

'About you.'

A pause.

'More specifically how you said we're all on this pursuit of perfection.'

'Do you think perfection is achievable, Thomas?' 

Hamilton speaks, soft. Thomas turns his face towards him, nuzzles into his cheek. He smells the sharp scent of mint, and what smells like his own cologne. It makes his heart hurt. His ear aches.

'I'm pretty damn sure it's worth a shot,' He whisper, and they stay there for a while until it sinks in.

That they're in love.

 

* * *

 

It turns out Burr can sing as well as he can play, and it's a crazy, upbeat tune he accompanies with his rich voice they twirl around to. James flits in and out of Thomas's grasp, panting; Hamilton cheers from where he's perched on another cube. Laf and Washington are nowhere to be found.

(Later Thomas will find a string of hopelessly excited text messages from Gil, all of which contain too much damn information.)

'Fuck, I'm done,' James proclaims, putting one hand on his chest and wheezing. If it weren't that his inhaler was on hand nearby, Thomas would be concerned. 'Lover Boy, you'd better damn dance with your man, or he'll be moping about the whole night.'

'I shouldn't.'

Hamilton's smiling. It makes Thomas's heart break into two.

(Casi turns his thighs outwards for him, straightens his posture. Corrects his positions. A man sits on the couch, smoking a fag and watching them both. Occasionally he snipes a remark, to which Casi will either respond or ignore completely.)

'C'mon.' He holds out a hand. His fingers are cold. 'Please? Just one, I promise. I'll lead.'

Burr strums the guitar thoughtfully.

Hamilton's full moon eyes bear into his face. Thomas can't read them: he never can, Hamilton may be an open book but it's written in a repetitive, confusing sort of language no one else can understand.

(But by God, can Thomas worship it.)

'Just one,' He echoes, shyly tossing his ponytail back as he takes Thomas's hand. 'You promise, huh?'

('I was a lawyer once,' Casi says. Thomas frowns at him, eyes the man on the couch surreptitiously. 'Yes, he was an associate. He still works in law. Thinks he's some shit, Dane does.' But in the thoughtful sort of way, as if he was agreeing with Dane.)

Burr launches into another dizzily upbeat tune, and Thomas doesn't miss a beat as he yanks Hamilton to his feet, twirling him around and round. 

'Fuck -'

James lets out a whoop, and even Burr's hiding an oily smile as he bends over his guitar, seeming to play faster and faster. Thomas crushes their fingers together, catches Hamilton's free arm by the elbow and pulls him in and out of his own little step sequence. His tie flies in the wind.

'Fuck,' Hamilton says, but it's more in awe this time.

He trips over Thomas's feet and the latter laughs, catches him just in time and hauls him upright. 

'Burr, if you slow down I swear to Jesus I'm going to skin you,' Thomas growls, and either Burr is scared for his wellbeing or just genuinely really likes the sensation of burning fingers, because they don't stop for a good while.

(Hamilton's ponytail flies. His mouth is open, laughing; there are smile lines by his eyes and God if he isn't fucking beautiful.)

When they pull away, they are sweating so heavily they look like they just showered fully dressed. 

Thomas sucks in a shaky breath, wipes the sweat off his brow just as Hamilton exhales and throws his head back, panting. There is some sweet synchronicity about the way they move, a jerky mechanism that keeps them tethered together. 

'How the fuck,' Hamilton says, a hand on his chest as if his heart is about to explode out of it, 'did I let you talk me into that, and how did I enjoy it?'

'Dancing is life.'

Life turns on a dime.

 

* * *

 

Thomas wakes up to warmth, settled against his chest. Bony fingers wrapped around his, a stubble covered cheek resting on his bare shoulder. They didn't so much go as tumble into bed last night, messy kisses and whispers into skin that remembers skin yet.

'Good morning,' He says, though the digital clock on his bedstead reads well past noon.

(To no one in particular. To Hamilton. To himself.)

(Casi disappeared sometime afterwards. Thomas showed up at the studio and he just wasn't there. Dane was. Dane was standing at the window and smoking a cigarette.)

Hamilton stirs. Something stirs inside Thomas's chest, a great heavy hunger to protect this heap of skin and bones sharing his warmth.

(Dane looked at him. Waiting.)

('You too, huh.')

Thomas is afraid. He is afraid of holding onto this thread of commitment. He is afraid Hamilton is not an anchor but a paper plane, to be carried away on a strong wind. He is afraid of 

(loving?)

not hating Hamilton.

'Oh, fuck,' Hamilton says, rolling over onto his back. His hair spreads over the pillows. Thomas can't help but thread his fingers through it. 

'Awake at last.'

'Fuck you, you probably just got up.' Hamilton blinks sleepily at him. Thomas feels something twist and leap in his ribcage. 'What time is it?'

(Time for change, Thomas thinks.)

'Late.'

Hamilton yawns, and Thomas grabs him by the waist. 

It happens too fast: every time he touches Hamilton he's on fire. His pulse zips, he can feel the beating warmth where his fingers hook through the smaller man's waistband. He's breathing. 

'Hi,' Hamilton whispers. His breath tickles Thomas's nose, a curl of cinnamon and whatever was in the drinks Madison shook up.

'Hi.'

His fingers are shaking. Hamilton reaches back, takes them in his. 

'You don't have to - you know. Whatever this is.' His eyes are unknowable in their depth. Thomas wants to dive into the pool, a thirsty man. The water is murky and still. He is not sure if he will drown, but drowning is a better alternative to admitting this fixation to himself.

'Whatever we are.'

'Oh.'

A curious, raw kind of sound. 

'Oh,' Thomas echoes. 

'Can I say something? Before you do. Because I -' And here Thomas's chest aches, because Hamilton's fingers are slipping from his and so are his eyes. '- because I'm scared.'

Scared. So is Thomas.

(I don't think I remember ever not being scared.)

He nods, breath hitching in his throat, and Hamilton smiles.

'I still fucking hate you. I remember the first time we met. You were in that ugly ass bright fire-fucking-truck red suit and you looked like you were judging me for my attire. I remember asking around, because hell, I'd never seen anything - anyone like you.'

Thomas laughs. It's bitter.

(He's never seen anyone like him, either. Broken and battered and with no valid reason why.)

'I remember arguing with you. It feels so fucking good. It always feels so good, arguing with you. Arguing against you, but that's court and court is boring. I mean our conversations outside. God, you're such an asshole.' Hamilton grins, swipes at his mouth. 'I remember your stupid comments on my blog posts. I couldn't get them out of my head.'

'You took days to respond,' Thomas says.

'I needed time. I always need more time.' Hamilton studies his hands, bony fingers and olive skin. 'Time's a funny concept, you realise?'

'A lot of things are funny.'

Hamilton looks at him.

'Yeah,' He says, a soft smile curling the edges of those soft, imperfect, beautiful lips, 'A lot of things are funny.'

Thomas moves again, too fast for his own brain to register.

His head rests on Hamilton's shoulder, chin tucking between empty space and warm skin, and Hamilton touches him and touches him. Thomas is dancing on hot coals, spinning to the beat of a rattlesnake, and he would not give this up for anything.

'I only ever want to argue with you.'

'Teach me how to dance again, sometime,' Hamilton whispers. 

 

* * *

 

They dance until their feet hurt, and argue until their lips blister. A vicious cycle of unadulterated loathing and a tenderness that scars, bite marks under pressed collars and fingers dripping with cookie batter.

A work of nonfinito, Thomas thinks.

An expansion beyond themselves. 

A naked singularity.

Love.

**Author's Note:**

> i did take many points from casi and dane's conversations because i love dane and casi so much it hurts goddamn 
> 
> thank you for reading i love you xx


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